Maybe a glass or two of wine would smother my nerves. The half bottle of Malbec left over fits snugly in one of the giant red wineglasses I find in the pantry; these are rich-people wineglasses, not meant to be filled to the brim. I take it to the balcony. The city lights sparkle, and I can see the dark waters of the river churning in the distance. There’s a glimmer of nostalgia left over from walking through San Telmo, but the more I try to recapture it the more elusive it becomes: my mind is already comingling the memory with the present. It seems clear, looking back, that when I was in Buenos Aires the last time, Luke and I were already doomed. And Blair. Until that trip, it was as though I hadn’t really let myself look at him in years. I realize now, too late, that I’d let so much of it pass me by because I was always hurtling forward in pursuit of glory, never simply standing still in the moment I was in. My old life was beautiful, and I’d raced right through it. I’d marched in Olympic ceremonies, stood on the medal podium, but it was never enough, because it wasn’t gold. And now it’s over.

I can only appreciate it in the rearview. Before, I found my peace and my euphoria in speed. If I had known I was speeding toward catastrophe, would I have done it differently? Could I have?

The wine gets me bleary enough to try to sleep. I’ve become wary of the bed; those quiet hours with no distractions have become my worst enemy. I try to read a novel I brought with me—something light and forgettable—but my mind is too wine drenched to string the words together. I close my eyes and feel the dizziness of sleep cloud my mind.

A few moments later, I’m awoken by an indistinct noise that sets my heart racing. I hear another sound, from the kitchen—it’s muffled but chillingly human. Oh god, someone is in here. I grab the cordless phone from the nightstand without the slightest idea of who I might call. Tom told me the number for emergency services, but I’ve forgotten it. It’s written down on a notepad. In the kitchen. As I pick my way softly along the plush carpet of the narrow living room, my nerves crackle like exposed wiring. Then I see it, a tiny hand stretched out on the kitchen floor, palm down and fingers slightly curled, as though the child had been trying to claw its way forward, but now the hand is still. A viscous pool of red is slowly advancing past it.