Henry had the taxi leave him at Seventy-Ninth Street, three blocks from Costanza’s building. It was seven minutes before eight. He had just enough time for a brief transition between his workday and the evening ahead.

Henry and his bag of fruit made their steady way along the limestone façades of Fifth Avenue. He moved slowly. It had been such a long time since he’d allowed his hope to rise in this way that he wasn’t so eager to have it leveled off by reality. So he savored it. For four, five, then six luscious minutes he walked up Fifth Avenue, strolling past liveried doormen and dogwalkers airing packs of mismatched breeds. He noticed everything: the gleaming brass door handles, the discreet nameplates advertising the services of plastic surgeons and shrinks, the roof gardens overhead whose furred trees looked like feathers stuck into grand chapeaux, the spotless pavement—even the sidewalk in these blocks was scrubbed clean, by someone. New York was a city of parallel worlds, of unending hierarchies. There was always someone who had more money, more talent, more friends, more connections, a bigger apartment with a better view … but Henry was convinced that none of them, at that moment, felt as buoyant as he did, none felt deep within himself the tiny pod of anticipation that made it seem as though his feet weren’t so much touching that impossibly clean sidewalk as levitating over it.

Her building had a plastic surgeon and three shrinks in offices on the ground floor. The gold on the doorman’s livery was so bright it gleamed. In the elevator cab, which was tricked out with beveled mirrors, Henry tried not to look at his reflection, and succeeded. He tried not to feel his heartbeat, and failed.

On the eighth floor the doors opened, and he stepped into a foyer. To the left of the door was a small illuminated bell, but before he could press it the door was opened by a short man who had carefully trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes. He was wearing gray trousers and a white shirt so close-fitting they seemed to have been sewn onto him.

“Good evening, Dr. Weissman. Please come in.”

Henry followed the small man into a second, larger foyer.

“I’m Ivan, Mr. Sarnoff’s assistant.”

Mr. Sarnoff’s assistant: as though the fellow hadn’t been dead for more than a year.

“Mrs. Sarnoff asked me to say that she will be down in a few minutes.”

After noting Henry’s bag Ivan added, “May I take your … parcel?”

Henry handed it over. “It’s fruit. You might want to put it in the fridge.”

Ivan took the bag. “May I offer you a refreshment?”

“Sparkling water, if you have it.”

Ivan guided Henry into the living room, then disappeared.