My rental car was where I had left it in Rock Harbour, my cell phone still in the glove compartment. There were dozens of messages. I listened to the newest ones, a question from a colleague from my firm, a message from my cleaning lady, who was keeping an eye on my house in my absence, a reminder from the head of my travel agency that I urgently needed to postpone my flight again. I deleted those messages. I deleted all the others as well.

I spoke to the Sheriff, who made a note of Irene’s death and took down my name and address. He had not known Irene, but he had known about her and done nothing. He had said to himself that time would take care of things.

I called the Australian colleague with whom I had prepared the merger. He was happy to lend me money and had the real-estate agency in Rock Harbour advance me some cash immediately. The German consulate in Sydney promised me new papers. The head of my travel agency had already postponed my flight, and postponed it again to two days later.

I spent the night in the same hotel by the sea that I had slept in on my journey out, sat on the terrace again, and watched the night fall. With the view of a marina and the noise of a busy restaurant, it wasn’t what it had been in Irene’s cove. That made me sad, and because I was afraid I might cry I went to my room. But I didn’t cry, not this time, nor any of the many other times I felt a lump in my throat.

I stopped in the same hotel in Sydney I had stayed in before Rock Harbour, and once again I was given a room with a view over the Opera House, the bay, and at the end of the bay, the green strip of land that separated it from the ocean. My Australian colleague invited me to dinner and I made the mistake of telling him about Irene. He winked at me conspiratorially and waxed lyrical about the young secretary he’d been having a fling with these past two weeks. The German consul greeted me personally, and kindly asked how I had managed to get myself into and out of a wildfire, and gave me temporary papers.