Linda frowned, put the cloth back, and Jack touched his own head. His brain felt injured; he wanted somebody else to take charge of the situation, load him onto a litter. The boxes around her were filled with items wrapped in newspaper.

“Are you moving again?” he asked.

“No. Just putting things in order.”

“Selling some stuff off, hopefully,” said Arturo.

“Who are you,” Jack asked, and Linda answered for him: “Antique dealer. Old friend. Do you think you can help me get to my feet?”

“Shoulder,” said Arturo, pointing.

The arm that wasn’t holding the cloth to her head dangled, as though she had no shoulder at all.

“Bet any amount of money that’s dislocated,” said Arturo. “Head, shoulder, let’s don’t touch her.”

“Linda,” said Jack. He couldn’t stand to look at the wrongness of arm. “I’m going to call an ambulance. Then I’m going to call Sadie.”

After a moment Linda said, “If you must, call the ambulance.”

“For the record,” said Arturo, “I wanted to call both.”

What record?

“Sadie’s terrible in situations like this,” said Linda.

“Is she?”

“Tell her afterward, when I’m all patched up and home.”

“You don’t think that will hurt her feelings?”

“Tough if it does,” said Linda. “I mean, maybe. Jack, don’t call her. I know you think I spoil her, but—of course, you understand, you were basically an only child yourself. Sadie told me—what with your sisters grown and out of the house, I’m sure your parents coddled you.”

He was thirty-six years old and had never been coddled a day in his life. Even when he went out with Linda, he paid for everything: the movie tickets, the museum admissions, the garlic soups and strong coffees at Café Pamplona.

“All right,” said Jack.

Arturo squatted by one of the boxes, knees apart to give his stomach room. “I called nine-one-one.” Then he pulled a newspaper-wrapped lump from a box. “Might as well, while we’re waiting.” Inside was a blue-and-white vase with twisted handles, a scowling profile painted on one side—Breton, Jack knew. He’d grown up with pottery like it, though nothing so fine as this. That old notion: a thing of beauty. Jack wanted it.

“Tim had good taste,” said Arturo to Linda.

“That thing,” said Linda. “I haven’t seen it in years. Plenty more like it, from what I remember.”

The EMTs rang the bell then came with their stretcher down the corridor, three bland young people, all with lank ponytails. “What did you do, Linda?” one shouted at her. Another said, “This place is cute.”

“It’s not cute,” said Linda. They lifted her to the stretcher.

“It’s cute,” said Arturo, “you’re cute, it’s very cute.”

“I’m a grown woman,” said Linda, rolling out the door.