Annie walked up the steps, over the cats, through the open front door into a dim hallway that smelled of dust and cat urine and age-soured wood. She heard the noisy flush of a toilet somewhere up the stairs. An elderly woman limped toward her from a room leading off the hall and stood silently, looking at her.

“You wanted something?” she asked at last, her voice shaped into a squeak by a mouth so small it looked as though it been stitched solidly at either end.

“Mr. Cranford.”

“Mr. Cranford,” repeated the woman, and shook her head as though she’d hoped for better news. “Go on up, then. He’s on the third floor, first door as you pass the clock.”

A cat padded down the stairs. Except for the black-painted doors, everything in the house, wallpaper, furniture, ceilings, was faded brown or gray. Cats came out of corners, from beneath tables, ignoring Annie’s presence, in search of patches of warmth beneath the dusty windows.

She passed a grandfather clock, its pendulum stilled, and knocked on the door to its right. She heard the sound of bedsprings, then footsteps. Next to the door she read a hand-lettered sign: “I won’t ring the bell more than once for your phone calls, tenants.”

The door opened, and she gazed into the hazel eyes of a very young man. His light-brown hair, wavy, as insubstantial-looking as loose feathers, was combed back from a wide, unlined forehead.

“Mr. Cranford?”

“Yes. You Max’s friend?”

She nodded; she’d explain that later if she had to. He stood aside to let her pass. The room, compared with her own, was spacious. Three large windows looked out on an old house that was the twin of the one she was in. Across the bed—a real bed with two pillows stacked up on one side—was a bright afghan throw. There were two wicker armchairs, several small worn rugs on the floor, and a table with a colored glass lampshade.

“It’s a nice room,” she said, staring at the afghan.

“My mother sent me that blanket,” he said. “I’d have to take that with me but everything else stays. It’s pretty quiet here except when things start popping at old Ivan’s.” He pointed toward a shadeless window in the house across the way. Annie looked straight into the other room. Piles of manuscript lay heaped up on the floor, and a number of chairs were arranged in a circle as though for a meeting.

“When you can’t sleep,” Jake Cranford was saying, “it’s as good as a movie, watching those crazy people over there.” He waved her to a chair. “I’d offer you a cigarette but I’m broke at the moment.”

Annie gave him her pack. He took a small frying pan from a shelf over a hot plate and placed it on the floor in front of her. “An ashtray,” he said.