“I know it was a tough time for you before you got here,” he says. “But I need you to remember that the mind can play tricks on us. This old house is here to keep you all safe and comfortable. That’s all.”

“I may not remember everything,” I say. “But my mind is fine.”

I can tell he’s getting antsy by the way he’s holding his hands, rubbing his fingers. He sighs in frustration.

“Penny, a lesson I’ve learned while working here is that we’re not always aware of change as it’s happening. Most change happens gradually, not overnight. You have nothing to worry about.”

He turns to go, walking to the door.

“For a while, when I was younger,” I say, which stops him, “I thought I would paint more.”

He’s right at the door with his back toward me, but he’s listening.

“I honestly believed that at some point I’d get over my insecurities and people would see my pictures. I thought that’s why I painted, you know, so eventually people could see my work, be moved or disturbed, so people would react to it. I thought that was the point.”

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t move.

“I’ve been hearing things,” I say.

Now he looks at me.

“That’s why I gave you those headphones.”

“But why am I hearing noises I’ve never heard before?”

“Because you were alone before.”

“And now?” I ask.

“And now we live here together. The headphones will help. That’s exactly what they’re for. You’ll be able to focus and paint for as long as you want.”

“Those headphones will help with how I feel?”

“They’ll help with the sounds you’re hearing. It’s an old house. Thin walls. It took you a long time to get used to the creaky floors, too, Penny.”

A long time? I just got here.

“Call me if you need anything else,” he says.

I should listen to Jack. Jack has been good to me. He likes me. I can trust him.

I try on my headphones, without any music this time. When I slip them over my ears, there’s no sound at all. Again, I feel the sensation of being underwater, submerged.

I stand and walk around my room, but I can’t even hear my own steps. I move over to my desk. I pick up my dry brush. I pretend to paint, mimicking the movements, as if I’m adding to the portrait of Hilbert, making subtle progress.

I look at myself in the mirror. I turn to the side, examine my profile, my posture. I stand as straight as Ruth.

“Bonjour,” I say with my bad French accent.

I think I’ve actually lost a few pounds. I can’t believe it considering how much I’m eating. Physically, I feel unimpaired, almost robust. But what I notice most today are my eyes. They are hazy, hollow, the color dimmer. It’s not drastic. It’s subtle. But they remind me of Pete’s eyes.

No one else would even notice. But I do.