The English department was deserted, quiet, and cool in the hot of the day, and John closed himself in his office and fell onto the couch to watch the shadows of the trees play on the far wall.

There was a television and DVD player on a portable stand between the windows, and the remote, usually so difficult to locate, was digging into his hindquarters. He shifted, and the television burped and buzzed and came to life.

He really didn’t need to watch the damn documentary again. There was nothing productive to be gained by it. The contract was signed, the deal was done; Angeline Mangiamele was on her way here, along with Rivera Rosenblum—there was a name out of his past, one that made him smile in spite of himself—and this Tony Russo. Whoever that was. Maybe Angie’s husband, or boyfriend. She couldn’t have stayed alone, not for five years. Surely not.

Except the documentary really was good, better than good; more than he had let himself hope for.

On the television screen a clip of old film showed a train moving across a winter landscape in grainy black and white. And then the voice, the one he didn’t need to hear again, not just now.

John got up and went to his desk, where he found a piece of bright pink paper with Patty-Cake’s handwriting: office assignments for the visiting faculty, and the paperwork for the payroll office, and the question she seemed to ask him twice a day: Would Ms. Mangiamele and Ms. Rosenblum be teaching the fall courses they had been offered? If not, they’d have to start looking for somebody else.

John made himself sit down behind the desk to take care of the housing request, the one he had started to work on three days ago and hadn’t been able to finish past question ten.

In order to best match available housing with visiting faculty, we would appreciate as much detail as can be provided on the visitor’s family and any special needs to be taken into consideration.

The things John knew about Angie Mangiamele could hardly be written on a form for a clerk in the housing office to read. Especially as that clerk might well turn out to be Harriet Darling, Caroline’s oldest sister.

She snores, he could write that, and no doubt she could share a few colorful facts about him, too. But if this was going to work—and it had to work—he would have to find a way to put all those little things out of his head and start fresh.