Out of habit, I shuffled a pile of papers on my desk, re-capped a pen, and straightened a few things. It was just, I thought with a heavy heart, the kind of thing a glorified secretary would do. What a strange way to pass the day: to encounter a stranger in the break room, then to overhear by chance an unflattering remark about yourself, and then, somehow as a consequence, to be lost in a long, detailed, and remarkably realistic daydream about a visit your father paid you more than twenty years ago! It was no wonder I— But that was when I saw that, amid my flurry of tidying and rearranging, I had taken the folded piece of stationery out of my pocket and spread it flat against my desk with the palm of my hand. Not the one I’d found in the pocket of my father’s coat, but the one the guest lecturer had given me in the Arboretum, the one with the name Daniel Shriver written on it, in clearly legible script, as if whoever had written it could not afford to be misunderstood. I spread it flat again; I smoothed it a second time with my palm, more slowly, like I was stroking a cat. But, I thought, what are you thinking of doing here? With my index finger I traced the two convergent lines of the cross and the steeple.

Then another thought bubbled up: Wasn’t that quite enough second-guessing? If the day’s dillydallying had taught me anything, it was that now was a time for action. Indolence is the forerunner of death, I thought. I had read that somewhere, I was sure. I took a deep breath, picked up the telephone, and dialed the number for the Old Mission Hotel.

Perhaps this time—I thought—and then there was a click, and a slight pause, and then a cool, impersonal voice said, “Hello? Mr. Shriver? We’ve been expecting your call.

“Hello? Are you there?”

I cleared my throat. With considerable effort I produced a hoarse, “Yes.”

“We’ve been trying to reach you,” said the voice, and of course I recognized it immediately, it was the smooth-faced young man from the reception desk, the one who’d told me my watch had stopped.

“I see,” I said. Somehow, events were moving out of my control, and I had a perverse desire to simply hang up the phone and walk out of my office, to never hear the name Daniel Shriver again.

“About your bag,” said the young man.

“About my bag,” I parroted. “Yes.”

“It seems you left it behind during your stay.”

“Yes,” I said again.

“Should I send it to the address on file?”