At some point, Wyatt shifted his focus entirely on the horror films. I think that since he used to study Kabuki theater in Tokyo, it wasn’t too difficult for him to channel his vision from one genre into the other. Right around Setsuko’s rebirth, he became obsessed with the yurei, vengeful ghosts who are trapped in the physical world on account of their violent deaths. They appear in white funeral attire with a tangled mane of hair. Almost always they are young girls. Wyatt is currently shooting what he’s said might be his opus. Reeling over the recent abduction and murder of their daughter in Los Angeles, an American couple travels to a rural village in Japan to try to move on and save their faltering marriage. It is there, in their rented house, that they encounter the yurei of Yumi, who had been strangled by a visiting stranger when she was nine years old. She bombards their minds with images of her death. Only after releasing her into the spirit world can they make peace with the loss of their own daughter. I wouldn’t feel so weird about the whole thing if Wyatt hadn’t begged me, this once, for Setsuko to play the part of the ghostly child. He so rarely invokes his veto that I felt obligated to comply. I can’t risk him becoming frustrated and halting my restagings altogether; I know what he’s like, as a director, when he doesn’t get his way. And little girls are always dressing up and pretending to be other people—how much harm could it do?

Lying by myself in bed until the early hours of the morning, I find I am bursting with too much anticipation over the upcoming Miruku scene to sleep. I can’t wait even a few more hours to break the news. I dig the bloody cat out of the trash bag in the garage, ring our doorbell, and shake Setsuko awake.

“The neighbors found our Miruku,” I say, presenting the carcass. “She must have been hit by a car.”

As before, Setsuko takes the cat from me, cradles it to her chest, and sobs. I put my arms around her. “Oh, precious one,” I whisper, “I promise I’ll get you another kitten.” I feel my tears falling on her hair. It is perfect.

“It doesn’t matter,” Setsuko replies, surprising me. That’s not like last time at all. “No kitten will ever be the same as Miruku.”

I allow Setsuko to sleep through her workout the next day until we need to leave for our tedious commute into Hollywood. I usually run errands or have lunch while they’re filming, but today, for whatever reason—an ominous hunch—I stay. Emerging from the makeup department with ratted locks and powdered skin, Setsuko really looks like a corpse. Gaffers and grips buzz about, checking that the proper gels are on the proper lights. The actors show up drinking lattes. Slowly, the scene of the hour comes together: The couple, fresh off the plane and unpacking their things, make love while the yurei watches from the bedroom doorway. The wife-actress is predictably young and rather attractive, shining hair cascading past the waistline of her silk robe embroidered with cherry blossoms.