At that time, at five o’clock, when half the village had already been to see Elsbeth and it was quieter at her place than she liked, an imp jumped onto the nape of her neck. It was one of those invisible hobgoblins that usually leap onto the shoulders of people out wandering at night. But since Elsbeth was constantly roaming through her house with the silence roaring in her ears like a forest at night, she wasn’t at all surprised that the imp had perched on her by mistake.

The imp repeated what half the village had said. It chattered about Selma’s dream and said that possibly, but probably not, no, certainly not, but then again just maybe, yes, definitely, someone was going to die.

With the imp perched on her neck, Elsbeth went to the telephone. She had a few truths of her own that wanted out at the very last minute, and the imp was whispering that the very last minute might well come soon.

Elsbeth called Selma, because Selma was the best person to call when you were afraid. No one answered. Selma had her hands full with other hellhounds at that very moment. Elsbeth stood in front of the little telephone side table for a long time, an endless ringing in her ear.

She knew what Selma would say, namely: “Do exactly what you would do on any other day.”

Elsbeth hung up.

“What would I do right now on any other day?” she asked, and the imp said, “Unfortunately, today is not any other day.”

Elsbeth tried not to listen. “What would I do now?” she asked again, louder.

“You should be afraid,” the imp replied.

“No,” Elsbeth said. “I should go buy some cornstarch.”

The line in the general store was short. While she waited, Elsbeth tried to free herself from the imp’s grip, but it wasn’t easy, unfortunately, because with the cornstarch she only had one hand free. She paid and hurried out. The sound of ringing echoed in her head, the telephone ringing endlessly at Selma’s. Elsbeth didn’t know how to make it stop, the ringing or the imp’s intrusions, and then suddenly the optician was standing in front of her.

“Hello,” he said. The ringing stopped and the imp, too, was silenced.

“Hello,” Elsbeth said. “Did you do your shopping?”

“Yes, heat patches for my back,” the optician said.

“Cornstarch for me,” Elsbeth said.

The shopkeeper’s supplier was pushing a cart as tall as he was, filled with groceries and covered with a gray tarp, into the store. He stopped halfway through the doorway to tie his shoelaces. The cart looks like a monstrous gray wall of regret, before which we will all eventually kneel, Elsbeth thought.

“How poetic,” the imp remarked, and Elsbeth, embarrassed, was suddenly unsure if she had said it out loud.

“Would you like one?” the optician asked.

“One what?”