He reached into a drawer and retrieved a ring from which hung a key and a leather tag inscribed with the number 409. “I think you’ll find the room very comfortable.”

He opened his mouth again, as if to add something, but thought better of it. I took the key without comment and turned away, and had taken three steps toward the bar and the elevator when some extra sense caused me to turn back. The young man was watching me, and when our eyes met he treated me to a very beautiful smile, like a sunrise dawning on his lovely features. I had made the right choice, his expression seemed to say.

I crossed the lobby, passing the long bar. Its row of red candles looked as though they had just been lit, and yet the bar was deserted, and there was no sign of that surly bartender.

“Hey there,” said a voice in the darkness. “There you are.”

I turned and felt the briefcase bang painfully into my thigh as I swiveled in haste. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom.

“I think you’ve underestimated this place,” said Mr. Reinecke. He was draped like a festive garland across one of the white, donut-shaped couches.

“I’m sorry?”

Beside him, on another of those distinctive couches, perched the little boy in old-fashioned clothing from my dream. He was sitting beside his mother, whose back was ramrod-straight.

“We’d prefer it if you came with us,” he said.

“Just a minute,” I said, with some difficulty. “What are you doing here?”

Then I heard another voice behind me.

“Sir?” It was the smooth-faced young man. I turned back toward the front desk, which, as suggested by the young man’s current proximity to me, was unattended.

“Sorry, sir,” he went on, and with a light touch on my elbow he steered me away from the donut-shaped couches. “I should have mentioned that the elevator is out of order.”

And that was apparently true; ahead, I could see that a white paper sign had been taped over its buttons, the words written on it too small to read from this distance.

“Not to worry,” said the young man calmly. “There is someone on the way.”

I nodded, allowing him to guide me gently across the shiny floor, like a dance partner in some sedate medieval routine.

“There’s no one in the lobby, Mr. Shriver,” he said, the tone and volume of his voice unchanged. “You’re in exactly the right place.”

Now we had reached the door to the stairs, where the young man, still smiling, deposited me. I turned back to the lobby, feeling his eyes on me, tracking my gaze. Mr. Reinecke and the little boy had vanished—just as he had said, it was deserted.