“It’s a little soon to tell,” Desmond said, even though he’d been longing to discuss his teaching with Russell for days. Somehow, the whole experience didn’t feel real to him, and he knew that part of the problem was that he hadn’t yet gone over the specifics with Russell. Deerforth had told him he’d be teaching two sections of a course in journalism, but when he arrived, he discovered that one was something called Creative Nonfiction, which, based on the work he’d seen thus far, was basically Noncreative Fiction. The good part was that most of the students in that class were less interested in having their work critiqued than they were in being consoled for their real or imagined afflictions and abuse. He mentioned some of this to Russell and said, “At least it’s giving me more free time than I’d expected.”

“And you’re getting work done on the book?”

A tall blond boy on Roller Blades glided up to the next phone, spilled out a pocketful of change, punched in a phone number using four ringed fingers of one hand, and started up a noisy argument, all without removing a pair of yellow earphones. Desmond turned away and put his hand over one ear. Thus far, he’d unpacked his boxes of notes for the book and lined them up on the library table he was using as a desk. He’d driven out to Waugborn, the suburb where Pauline Anderton had spent her final days, but rather than being inspired by the place, he was depressed by the sight of the ugly decay of the downtown and the clusters of new houses flung into treeless lots. “I am,” Desmond lied. “I think I’m getting close to figuring out what’s missing. Then at least I’ll know what to look for.”

“That sounds hopeful. By the way, I forwarded some mail to you today. You got a letter from your editor.”

“Oh? How big was it?”

“How big? I don’t know. I’d guess it was a note, but I didn’t open it. I don’t think there was a check enclosed, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, there wouldn’t be.” A note could mean anything or nothing at all. Although it didn’t make much sense to him that if she’d been too busy to return his calls she’d have time to write bread-and-butter notes. He tried to summon up a picture of her, but it had been over a year since they’d last met and what he remembered most vividly was that she dressed in conservative skirts and jackets and had muscular calves.

“What’s all that racket in the background?” Russell asked. “Are you in a bus station?”