Suddenly I was alert again, as if I’d been pricked with a pin. What was the matter with this hotel and pieces of paper on windshields? I felt an indignation rising in me, pure and white; I hailed it like an old friend. If I had not already spent enough time in that soulless lobby, I would have gone back inside to complain. Surely a person should be able to park his car somewhere for ten minutes without it being blanketed by nonsensical papers, to who knows what end? I looked around, and sure enough, each windshield in the lot had its own little sheet. Like the last, this one had the look of something badly photocopied, but unlike its predecessor it had no image, only text. THE MISSIONS, it read, in angry black lettering, WERE FURNACES OF DEATH.

20

I crossed the reservoir under a black night sky; I rolled my window down, took a breath, and felt the sting of the cold air at the bottom of it. I just needed a little time to think, I told myself, that was all. The smell of the sea was very far inland tonight, I thought, and took another, more modest breath through my nose. So many things had happened, developments of all different weights and categories; it would take time and some distance to put everything in order. Now I came up out of the reservoir and onto the ridge, where a white sickle moon was visible intermittently through the tops of the pines. Triage, I thought, smiling a little to myself at the word, because if the day’s events had taught me anything it was that I was not a doctor.

I set the briefcase down in the foyer, where it looked unconvincing, like a prop for a play. The clock above the stove read five minutes to eight. On the drive home I’d imagined myself sitting at the table with a paper and pen and writing down all that had occurred while it was still fresh, but now, in the tinny light of the kitchen, with the monolithic black pressing in against the windows, this plan looked overly ambitious. It had all been so exhausting—it would probably be best to direct my remaining energy toward tasks I knew I could accomplish, like making a sandwich and going to bed. Yes, I thought, a quiet sigh escaping me, that would likely be best. I opened the refrigerator door and, ignoring the pot of spaghetti that sat reproachfully on the top shelf, I took out the jar of mayonnaise, a can of salmon, and two slices of bread. I ate my sandwich standing over the kitchen sink; then I washed the knife and cutting board and went to bed.