The last time Desmond had interviewed these two, a couple of years ago now, they’d called him every male name that began with a D—Dennis, Donald, Douglas, Drew, Derrick, David, Daniel. You’d think they might have landed on Desmond once, purely by chance, but it had never happened. He’d stopped trying to correct them, figuring it couldn’t matter all that much, even though he found the whole business infuriating. Best not to alienate them. They were important to him, the only link he’d found to this part of Anderton’s life. They’d given him eyewitness information about her final years, her death, her burial. And their batty behavior, gaudy house, and cheerful, inappropriate laughter could be major assets on screen. They were all sitting in oversized furniture in a small room at the back of the house paneled in something that was supposed to be wood. The windows looked out to what had been a field two years ago and was now a tidy circle of new houses which, like the furniture, were much too big for the setting. Desmond was willing to bet they all had four or five bathrooms, each with a slew of water-thirsty tubs and toilets and shower stalls.

“They finally got rid of that barren wasteland we had out there,” Mr. Walsh said, following Desmond’s gaze. “Came in and put up those houses in a few days.”

“It feels so much more private now,” Mrs. Walsh added. “Before, anybody could be out in that field looking in the windows.”

“I see what you mean,” Desmond said.

The disappointingly amateur team of Chloe and Tim was setting up the lights and video equipment while he and Jane tried to make conversation. It was probably a good thing Jane was being cautious with the fifteen grand they’d been granted, but he wasn’t convinced that the camera crew was the best place to get economical. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh were sitting on a red plaid sofa shoved against one wall, both in navy blue sweatshirts, looking like a pair of plumped pillows. They had similarly round bodies and sagging jowls and matching receding hairlines. Tim, who, in tight blue jeans and a baggy yellow T-shirt, looked almost prepubescent, held a light meter up to their faces, took a reading, and reported back to Chloe.

“Should I introduce you to the new kids while we wait?” Mrs. Walsh asked. She took a sip from her glass of apple juice, a Scotch-and-water if ever Desmond had seen one.

Jane looked at Desmond warily. “They won’t be here for the taping will they?”

“Oh, sure, they’ll be here through the whole thing. But they’re quiet. Aren’t they, Denny?”

Not the kids, Desmond thought. “Yes, they’re very quiet.”