The Leftovers

ANY MINUTE NOW

IT WAS WAY TOO CHILLY to be sitting on the back deck with a cup of morning coffee, but Kevin couldn’t help himself. After being cooped up all winter, he wanted to take advantage of every minute of sunshine and fresh air that the world allowed, even if he had to wear a sweater, a jacket, and a woolen cap to enjoy it.

Spring had come quickly in the past few weeks — snowdrops and hyacinths, flashes of yellow in the suddenly undead bushes, and then a riotous explosion of birdsong and dogwood blossoms, more new green every time you turned your head. The winter hadn’t been harsh by historical standards, but it had felt long and stubborn, almost eternal. March was especially bleak — cold and damp, gray sky pressing down — the gloomy weather reflecting and intensifying the mood of foreboding that had afflicted Mapleton ever since the murder of the second Watcher on Valentine’s Day. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, people had convinced themselves that a serial killer was on the loose, some unhinged loner with a grudge against the G.R. and a plan to eliminate the organization, one member at a time.

It would have been bad enough if Kevin had simply been dealing with the crisis as an elected official, but he was involved as a father and a husband, too, worried about the psychological well-being of his daughter and the physical safety of his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He still hadn’t signed the divorce papers Laurie had given him, but it wasn’t because he thought their marriage could be saved. He was delaying for Jill’s sake, not wanting to dump more bad news on her now, when she was still recovering from the shock of finding the body.

It had been an awful experience, but Kevin was proud of the way she’d responded, calling 911 on her cell phone, waiting alone in the dark with the dead man until the cops arrived. Since then, she’d done everything she could to assist the investigation, submitting to multiple interviews with detectives, helping an artist produce a sketch of the bearded Watcher she’d seen in the Stellar Transport parking lot, even visiting the Ginkgo Street compound to see if she could spot the man in a series of lineups that supposedly included every male resident over the age of thirty.

The lineups were a bust, but the sketch bore fruit: The bearded man was identified as Gus Jenkins, a forty-six-year-old former florist from Gifford Township who’d been living in a G.R. “outpost” on Parker Road — the same group home, Kevin was startled to learn, into which Laurie had recently moved. The victim, Julian Adams, lived in the same house and had been seen with Jenkins on the night of the murder.

After repeated denials, the G.R. leadership finally admitted that Jenkins was a member of the Mapleton Chapter, but insisted — unconvincingly, according to investigators — that the organization had no idea as to his current whereabouts. This stonewalling infuriated the cops, who’d made it clear that they were seeking Jenkins as a witness, not a potential suspect. A couple of detectives even wondered out loud if the G.R. wanted the killer to remain at large, if they might be secretly pleased to have a homicidal maniac turning their members into martyrs.

Two months had passed without any breakthroughs in the case, but also without a third murder. People got a little bored with the story, started to wonder if maybe they’d overreacted. As the weather changed, Kevin sensed a shift in the collective mood, as if the whole town had suddenly decided to lighten up and stop obsessing about dead Watchers and serial killers. He’d seen this process before: It didn’t matter what happened in the world — genocidal wars, natural disasters, unspeakable crimes, mass disappearances, whatever — eventually people got tired of brooding about it. Time moved on, seasons changed, individuals withdrew into their private lives, turned their faces toward the sun. On balance, he thought, it was probably a good thing.

“There you are.”

Aimee stepped through the sliding door that connected the kitchen to the deck, then turned to shut the door with her elbow. She had a mug in one hand, the coffee carafe in the other.

“Want a refill?”

“You read my mind.”

Aimee poured the coffee, then pulled up a cushionless metal chair, giving an exaggerated shudder as her butt touched the seat. She was wearing a Carhartt jacket over a nightgown she’d borrowed from Jill, but her feet were bare on the rough wood.

“It’s quarter after nine,” she said through a yawn. “I figured you left for work.”

“Pretty soon,” Kevin said. “There’s no rush.”

She nodded vaguely, not bothering to point out that he was never home after nine in the morning, or to suggest that he might have delayed his departure on her account, because he’d grown attached to their morning talks and didn’t want to leave while she was still asleep. But he didn’t have to say it; it was in the air, obvious to both of them.

“What time did you get in last night?”

“Late,” she said. “A bunch of us went out to a bar.”

“Derek, too?”

She made a guilty face. She knew he didn’t approve of her relationship with her married boss, though she’d explained numerous times that it wasn’t much of a relationship — just a bad habit, really, something to pass the time.

“Did he drive you home?”

“It’s on the way.”

Kevin swallowed his usual lecture. He wasn’t her father; she was entitled to her mistakes, just like everyone else.

“I told you,” he said. “You can use the Civic anytime you want. It’s just sitting in the garage.”

“I know. But even if I had a car last night, I was in no condition to drive.”

He looked at her a little more closely as she sipped her coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug for warmth. She seemed alert and upbeat, not visibly hungover. At that age, he remembered, you just bounced right back.

“What?” she asked, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“Nothing.”

She put down the mug, slipped her hands into her coat pockets.

“Gonna be a cold night for softball,” she said.

Kevin shrugged. “The weather’s part of the game, you know? You’re out there under the sky. Cold in the spring, hot in the summer. That’s why I never liked those domed stadiums. You lose all that.”

“I could never get into softball.” She turned her head, distracted by a bluejay flashing by. “I played one season when I was a kid, and I couldn’t believe how boring it was. They used to stick me in the outfield, a million miles away from home plate. All I wanted to do was lie down in the grass, put my glove over my face, and take a nap.” She smiled, amused by the memory. “I did it a couple of times. Nobody even missed me.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I guess I won’t try to recruit you for next season.”

“Recruit me for what?”

“My team. We’re thinking about going coed. We need more players.”

She bit her bottom lip, looking thoughtful.

“I might give it a try,” she told him.

“But you just said—”

“I’ve matured. I have a much higher tolerance for boredom.”

Kevin plucked a peach blossom from the surface of his coffee and flicked it over the railing. He caught the teasing lilt in Aimee’s voice, but also the truth that lay beneath it. She had matured. Somehow, in the past couple of months, he’d stopped thinking of her as a high school girl, or his daughter’s cute friend who stayed out too late. She was his friend now, his coffee buddy, the sympathetic listener who’d helped him through his breakup with Nora, a young woman who brightened his day every time he saw her.

“I promise I won’t put you in the outfield,” he said.

“Cool.” She gathered her long hair with both hands as if making a ponytail, but then changed her mind, letting it spill back over her shoulders, soft and pretty against the rough twill of her jacket. “Maybe we could play catch sometime. When it’s warmer out. See if I even remember how to throw.”

Kevin looked away, suddenly embarrassed. In the far corner of the yard, two squirrels raced up a tree trunk, their little feet scrabbling frantically on the bark. He couldn’t tell if they were having a good time or trying to kill each other.

“Oh, well,” he said, playing the tabletop like a bongo. “Guess I better get to work.”

TOM WAS Christine’s alarm clock. It was his job to wake her by nine in the morning. If she slept any later than that, it made her cranky and threw off her whole circadian rhythm. He hated to disturb her, though: She looked so blissful lying there on her back, her breathing slow and shallow, one hand behind her head, the other by her side. Her face was empty and serene, her belly huge beneath the thin blanket, a perfect human igloo. Her due date was just a week away.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He took her hand, tugging gently on her index finger, then her middle finger, moving methodically toward the pinkie. “Time to get up.”

“Go ’way,” she muttered. “I’m tired.”

“I know. But you need to get up.”

“Leave me alone.”

This went on for another minute or two, Tom coaxing, Christine resisting, hampered by the fact that she could no longer roll onto her side without a massive amount of willpower and logistical calculation. Her preferred evasive maneuver — flopping onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow — was totally out of the question.

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go downstairs and have breakfast.”

She must have been hungry, because she finally deigned to open her eyes, blinking against the dim light, squinting at Tom as though he were a distant acquaintance whose name was on the tip of her tongue.

“What time is it?”

“Time to get up.”

“Not yet.” She patted the mattress, inviting him to join her. “Just a few more minutes.”

This was part of the ritual, too, the best part, Tom’s reward for performing an otherwise thankless task. He stretched out beside her on the bed, turning onto his side so he could look at her face, the one part of her body that hadn’t changed dramatically over the past few months. It remained thin and girlish, as if it still hadn’t gotten the news about the pregnancy.

“Ooh!” Wincing with surprise, she took his hand and placed it on her belly, right on top of her popped-out navel. “He’s really busy in there.”

Tom could feel a swirling movement beneath his palm, a hard object pressing against her abdominal wall — a hand or a foot, maybe an elbow. It wasn’t easy to distinguish one fetal extremity from another.

“Somebody wants out,” he said.

Unlike Christine and the Falks, Tom refused to refer to the fetus as “he.” There hadn’t been an ultrasound, so nobody knew for sure if it was a boy or a girl. The baby’s supposed maleness was an article of faith, based on Mr. Gilchrest’s certainty that the miracle child was a replacement for the son he’d lost. Tom hoped he was right, because it was sad to imagine the alternative, an infant girl being welcomed into the world with groans of shock and dismay.

“Are they home?” Christine asked.

“Yup. They’re waiting for you.”

“God,” she sighed. “Can’t they go away for the weekend or something?”

They’d been living with the Falks for three and a half months, and by now, even Christine was sick of them. She didn’t dislike Terrence and Marcella the way Tom did, couldn’t afford to resent their generosity, or laugh at their slavish devotion to Mr. Gilchrest. She just felt suffocated by their constant attention. All day long they hovered, trying to anticipate her needs, fulfill her smallest desire, as long as it didn’t involve leaving the house. Tom knew that was the only reason he was still here — because Christine needed him, because she would’ve gone crazy, trapped for so long with just the Falks for company. If it had been up to their hosts, he would’ve been out on his ass a long time ago.

“You kidding?” he said. “They’re not going anywhere, not this close to the big day. They wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.”

“Yeah.” She nodded with deadpan enthusiasm. “It’s gonna be so great. I can’t wait to go into labor.”

“I hear it’s a blast.”

“That’s what everybody tells me. Especially when it lasts really long and you don’t have any pain medication. That part sounds awesome.”

“I know,” Tom agreed. “I’m totally jealous.”

She patted her stomach. “I just hope the baby’s really big. With one of those gigantic melon heads. That’ll make it even better.”

They joked like this all the time. It was Christine’s way of calming her nerves, preparing herself for the ordeal of natural childbirth. That was how Mr. Gilchrest wanted it — no doctors, no hospital, no drugs. Just a midwife and some ice chips, a little Motown on the iPod, Terrence standing by with the video camera, ready to record the big event for posterity.

“I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “They’ve been really nice to me. I just need a break, you know?”

She’d been restless lately, tired of being pregnant and housebound, especially now that the weather was so nice. Just last week, she’d persuaded the Falks to take her for a drive in the country, but they’d been so nervous about having her in the car — unable to talk about anything except how horrible it would be if they got into an accident — that it hadn’t been any fun for anybody.

“Don’t worry.” He reached for her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re almost there. Just a few days to go.”

“You think Wayne’ll be out by then?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really understand the legal system.”

For the past several weeks, the Falks had been claiming that Mr. Gilchrest’s lawyers were making real progress on his case. From what they’d heard, a deal was in the works that would allow him to plead guilty to some minor charges and get off without any additional jail time. Any minute now, they kept saying. We should hear some good news any minute. Tom was skeptical, but the Falks seemed genuinely excited, and their optimism had rubbed off on Christine.

“You should come back to the Ranch with us,” she told him. “You could live in one of the guesthouses.”

Tom appreciated the offer. He’d grown attached to Christine and the baby — at least the idea of the baby — and would have liked to stay close to them. But not like that, not if it meant living in Mr. Gilchrest’s shadow.

“You’d be welcome there,” she promised. “I’ll tell Wayne what a good friend you’ve been. He’ll be really grateful.” She waited for a response that didn’t come. “It’s not like you have anywhere else to go.”

That wasn’t exactly true. After the baby came, when Christine didn’t need him anymore, Tom figured he’d head back home to Mapleton, spend a few days with his father and sister — he’d been thinking a lot about them in the past few months, though he hadn’t called or e-mailed — maybe say hi to his mom if he could find her. After that, though, Christine was right — his life was a blank slate.

“Wayne’s a good man,” she said, gazing up at the poster on the ceiling, the one Tom didn’t like to look at. “Pretty soon the whole world’s gonna know it.”

LAURIE AND Meg arrived early for their nine o’clock meeting, but they weren’t invited into the Director’s office until close to noon. Patti Levin seemed genuinely embarrassed about the delay.

“I didn’t forget about you,” she assured them. “It’s just really hectic this morning. My assistant’s out with the flu, and the whole operation just falls apart without her. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

Laurie was puzzled by the apology, which seemed to be based on the assumption that she and Meg were busy people who didn’t like to be kept waiting. In her previous life, Laurie had been that sort of person, an overscheduled suburban mom juggling errands and kids, forever racing from one obligation to the next. Back then, when everybody thought the world would last forever, nobody had time for anything. No matter what she was doing — baking cookies, walking around the lake on a beautiful day, making love to her husband — she felt rushed and jittery, as if the last few grains of sand were at that very moment sliding through the narrow waist of an hourglass. Any unforeseen occurrence — road construction, an inexperienced cashier, a missing set of keys — could plunge her into a mood of frantic despair that could poison an entire day. But that was her old self. Her new self had nothing to do but smoke and wait, and she wasn’t all that particular about where she did it. The hallway outside the Director’s office was as good a place as any.

“So how’s it going?” Patti Levin asked with a smile. “How are things at Outpost 17?”

Laurie and Meg traded glances, pleasantly surprised by the Director’s friendly tone. The summons they’d received had been terse and a bit ominous—Report to HQ, 9 A.M. tomorrow—and they’d spent a good part of the previous evening trying to figure out if they might be in some kind of trouble. Laurie thought she might get scolded for her failure to return the divorce petition. Meg toyed with the idea that their house was bugged, that the leadership not only knew how regularly they violated their Vows of Silence, but exactly what they said as well. You’re being paranoid, Laurie told her, but she couldn’t help wondering if it might be true, racking her brain to see if she’d said anything over the past couple of months that might come back to haunt her.

“We like it there,” Meg said. “It’s a really nice place.”

“It’s got a great backyard,” Laurie added.

“Doesn’t it?” the Director agreed, touching a match flame to the tip of her cigarette. “I bet it’s lovely this time of year.”

Meg nodded. “It’s so lush. And there’s a little tree with the prettiest pink blossoms. I’m not sure if it’s cherry or—”

“I’m told it’s a redbud,” the Director said. “Fairly unusual in these parts.”

“The only problem is the birds,” Laurie observed. “You wouldn’t believe how loud they are in the morning. It’s like they’re right there in the bedroom. Hundreds of ’em, all chirping at one another.”

“We think it might be nice to plant a vegetable garden,” Meg said. “Green beans, zucchini, tomatoes, stuff like that. Totally organic.”

“It would pay for itself,” Laurie chimed in. “We just need a small investment to get started.”

They were really excited about the garden plan — they had a lot of time on their hands and wanted to do something constructive with it — but the Director blew right past the subject as though she hadn’t even heard them.

“Where do you sleep?” she asked. “Have you moved into the master bedroom?”

Laurie shook her head. “We’re still upstairs.”

“Separate rooms,” Meg added quickly, which was technically true, but a bit misleading, since her own mattress had taken up permanent residence on the floor of Laurie’s bedroom. They both felt better that way, close enough to whisper, especially now that they were alone at the outpost.

Patti Levin squinted in disapproval, exhaling a jet of smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“The master bedroom’s much nicer. Isn’t there a Jacuzzi down there?”

Meg blushed. It was a rare night at the outpost when she didn’t avail herself of the Jacuzzi. Laurie liked it okay, but the novelty had worn off pretty quickly.

“The only reason I bring it up,” the Director went on, “is because your new housemates will be arriving next week. If you want to make a move, this would be a good time to do it.”

“Housemates?” Meg said without a whole lot of enthusiasm.

“Al and Josh,” the Director said. “Really special guys. I think you’ll like them.”

This news wasn’t unexpected — it was one of the first possibilities they’d discussed last night — but Laurie was surprised by the depth of her disappointment. She and Meg were happy on their own. They were like sisters or college roommates, totally relaxed and unself-conscious, familiar with each other’s quirks and moods. She wasn’t looking forward to the intrusion of newcomers, the awkwardness of once again sharing the house with strange men. The whole domestic chemistry would change, especially if one of them got a crush on Meg, or Meg got a crush on one of them. Laurie didn’t even want to think about that, all the sexual tension and twentysomething drama, no peace for anyone.

“You’ve got a beautiful tradition at Outpost 17,” the Director told them. “I hope you two can keep it going.”

“We’ll do our best,” Laurie promised, though she wasn’t quite sure what the tradition was, or how she and Meg might go about preserving it.

Patti Levin seemed to catch her uncertainty.

“Gus and Julian are heroes,” she said in a firm and quiet voice. “We need to honor their sacrifice.”

“Gus?” Meg said. “Did he get killed, too?”

“Gus is fine,” the Director said. “He’s a very brave man. We’re taking very good care of him.”

“What did he do?” Meg asked, giving voice to Laurie’s own confusion. All they knew was that Gus hadn’t come home the night Julian got killed, and that the police were still looking for him. “What was his sacrifice?”

“He loved Julian,” the Director said. “Can you imagine the courage it took to do what he did?”

“What did he did do?” Meg asked again.

“He did what we asked him to.”

Laurie felt suddenly light-headed, as if she might pass out. She remembered squatting by the radiator on those cold winter nights, listening to the shameless, almost desperate noise Gus and Julian were making in the master bedroom, as if they were beyond all caring.

Patti Levin sucked on her cigarette, staring at Meg for a long moment, and then shifting her gaze to Laurie, filling the space between them with a cloud of grayish smoke.

“The world went back to sleep,” she said. “It’s our duty to wake it up.”

*

KEVIN KNEW it was overkill, reading the paper with the TV on and his laptop open while eating his pregame sandwich, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He wasn’t really using the laptop — he just liked to keep it handy in case he felt like checking his e-mail — nor was he reading the paper in any formal sense. He was just sort of scanning it, exercising his eyes, letting them roam over the headlines in the Business section without absorbing any information. As for the TV, that was just background noise, an illusion of company in the empty house. All he was thinking about was the sandwich itself, turkey and cheddar on wheat, a little mustard and some lettuce, nothing fancy, but perfectly adequate nonetheless.

He was almost finished when Jill came in through the back door, pausing in the mudroom to drop her heavy backpack on the floor. She must’ve been in the library, he thought. That was what she’d been doing lately, making sure she didn’t get home from school until Aimee had left for work. They had it down to a science, at least on the weekdays, timing their arrivals and departures so that they never overlapped in the house unless one of them was sleeping, though they both insisted that they were getting along just fine.

He smiled sheepishly when she entered the kitchen, expecting her to tease him about his multimedia meal, but she didn’t even notice. She was too busy squinting at her phone, looking surprised and impressed at the same time.

“Hey,” she said. “You hear about Holy Wayne?”

“What’s going on?”

“He pled guilty.”

“Which charges?”

“Bunch of them,” she said. “Looks like he’s going away for a long time.”

Kevin woke up his laptop and checked the news. The story was right there at the top. HOLY WAYNE FESSES UP: EXTRAORDINARY MEA CULPA FROM DISGRACED CULT LEADER. He clicked the link and started to read:

Surprise deal … prosecutors recommend twenty-year sentence … eligible for parole in twelve … “After my boy disappeared, I lost my bearings … All I wanted to do was help people who were in pain, but the power went to my head … I took advantage of so many vulnerable kids … betrayed my wife and the memory of my son, not to mention the trust of the young people who looked to me for healing and spiritual guidance … Especially the girls … They weren’t my wives, they were my victims … I wanted to be a holy man, but I turned into a monster.”

Kevin tried to concentrate on the words, but his eyes kept straying to the picture that accompanied the story, the all-too-familiar mug shot of a sullen, unshaven man in a pajama top. He was surprised to realize that he felt no satisfaction, no vengeful pleasure at the thought of Holy Wayne rotting in prison. All he felt was a dull throb of sympathy, an unwelcome sense of kinship with the man who’d broken his son’s heart.

He loved you, Kevin thought, staring at the mug shot as if he expected it to reply. And you failed him, too.

SO MUCH TO LET GO OF

BEFORE SHE STARTED HUNTING IN earnest for a new name, Nora changed the color of her hair. That was the proper order, she thought, the only sequence that made any sense. Because how could you know who you were until you saw what you looked like? She’d never understood those parents who had their baby’s name picked out months or even years before it was born, as if they were putting a label on an abstract idea rather than a flesh-and-blood person. It seemed so presumptuous, so dismissive of the actual child.

She would have preferred to do the dye job at home, in secret, but she could tell it would be too elaborate and risky an operation to handle on her own. Her hair was very dark brown, and every website she consulted warned her to think twice about trying to go blond without professional assistance. It was a complicated, time-consuming process that required harsh chemicals and often resulted in what the experts liked to call “unfortunate outcomes.” The comments that followed the articles were full of second thoughts from rueful brunettes who wished they’d been a little more accepting of their natural coloration. I used to have pretty brown hair, one woman wrote. But I bought into the propaganda and bleached it blond. The color came out fine, but now my hair’s so dull and lifeless my boyfriend says it feels like plastic grass growing out of my scalp!

Nora read these testimonies with some trepidation, but not enough to change her mind. She wasn’t dyeing her hair for cosmetic purposes, or because she wanted to have more fun. What she wanted was a clean break with the past, a wholesale change of appearance, and the quickest, surest way to do that was to become an artificial blonde. If her pretty brown hair turned into plastic grass in the process, that was collateral damage she could live with.

In her whole life, she’d never once colored her hair, or added any highlights, or even touched up the smattering of gray that had appeared over the past few years, despite the repeated urging of her stylist, a stern and judgmental Bulgarian named Grigori. Let me get rid of that, he told her at every appointment, in his ominous Slavic accent. Make you look like teenager again. But Nora had no interest in looking like a teenager; if anything, she wished there was a little more gray up there, wished she was one of those still-youngish people whose hair had turned snow-white as a result of the shock they’d suffered on October 14th. It would’ve made her life easier, she thought, if strangers could take one look at her and understand that she was one of the stricken.

Grigori was a highly respected colorist with an upscale clientele, but Nora didn’t want to involve him in her transformation, didn’t want to listen to his objections or explain her reasons for doing something so drastic and ill-advised. What was she supposed to say? I’m not Nora anymore. Nora’s all finished. That wasn’t the kind of conversation she wanted to have in a hair salon with a man who talked like a movie vampire.

She made her appointment at Hair Traffic Control, a chain that catered to a younger, more budget-conscious consumer, and presumably handled lots of foolish requests without batting an eye. Even so, the punky, pink-haired stylist looked dubious when Nora told her what she wanted to do.

“Are you super sure about this?” she asked, brushing the back of her hand across Nora’s cheek. “Because your skin tone doesn’t really—”

“You know what I’m thinking?” Nora said, cutting her off in midsentence. “I’m thinking this’ll go a lot faster if we skip the small talk.”

JILL WASN’T making much headway with The Scarlet Letter. It was partly Tom’s fault, she thought; back when he was in high school, he’d complained so bitterly about the book that it must have poisoned her mind. Actually, he hadn’t just complained; she’d come home from school one afternoon and found him stabbing his paperback edition with a steak knife, the tip of the blade penetrating the cover and sinking far enough down into the early chapters that he sometimes had trouble pulling it out. When she asked what he was doing, he explained in a calm and serious voice that he was trying to kill the book before it killed him.

So maybe she wasn’t approaching the text with the respect it deserved as a timeless classic of American literature. But she was at least making a good-faith effort. She’d sat down with the book on three separate occasions in the past week and still hadn’t made it through Hawthorne’s introduction, which Mr. Destry claimed was an important part of the novel that shouldn’t be skipped. It was like she was allergic to the prose; it made her feel slow and stupid, not quite fluent in English: These old gentlemen — seated, like Matthew, at the receipt of the custom, but very liable to be summoned thence, unlike him, for apostolic errands — were Custom-House officers. The longer she stared at a sentence like that, the less sense it made, as if the words were dissolving on the page.

But the real problem wasn’t the book, and it wasn’t spring fever, or the fact that graduation was just around the corner. The problem was Ms. Maffey and the I.M. chat they’d started up a few days ago. It had gotten under Jill’s skin and was pulling her in a direction she didn’t want to go. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself, couldn’t find a good reason to disengage, to sever a connection that had renewed itself so unexpectedly, after so many years.

Ms. Maffey, Holly—Jill was still trying to get used to calling her by her first name — had been Jill’s fourth-grade teacher at Bailey Elementary and her all-time favorite, though it hadn’t started out that way. Holly had taken over the class in January, after Ms. Frederickson left to have a baby. All the kids resented her at first and treated her like the interloper she was. After a week or two, though, they began to realize that they’d lucked out: Ms. Maffey was young and vibrant, way more fun than stuffy old Ms. Frederickson (not that anyone had thought of Ms. Frederickson as stuffy or old until Holly showed up). Almost a decade later, Jill couldn’t remember much about fourth grade, or what had made that spring so special. All she remembered was the goldfish tattoo above Ms. Maffey’s ankle, and the feeling of being a little in love with her teacher, wishing every day that summer would never arrive.

Ms. Maffey only taught in Mapleton those few months. The following September, Ms. Frederickson returned from her maternity leave, and Holly took a job at a school in Stonewood Heights, where she’d remained until a year ago. She’d been married for a short time to a man named Jamie, who’d disappeared in what she naturally referred to as the Rapture. They hadn’t had time to have kids, which was something Holly had mixed feelings about. She’d always wanted to be a mom and was sure that she and Jamie would have made beautiful babies, but she knew that this was no time to be reproducing, bringing new people into a world without a future.

I guess it’s a blessing, she wrote to Jill in one of their first exchanges. To not have to worry about little ones.

They’d met a couple of months ago, at the height of the murder investigation. Jill had gone to Ginkgo Street with Detective Ferguson, who’d arranged for what he called a “beauty pageant,” in the hope that she might be able to spot the asthmatic Watcher he was so keen on questioning. It had turned out to be a waste of time, of course, and a weird one at that — fifty grown men, all dressed in white, parading in front of her like contestants in a creepy religious version of The Bachelorette—but it had been redeemed at the very end by the reunion with her old teacher, whom she happened to pass on her way out of the main building. They recognized each other right away, Jill crying out with delight, Ms. Maffey spreading her arms, wrapping her former student in a long and heartfelt embrace. It wasn’t until Jill got home and found the handwritten note that had been slipped into her coat pocket—Please e-mail me if you want to talk about anything! — that she realized it hadn’t been a chance encounter at all.

Jill wasn’t stupid; she understood that she was being recruited — probably with her mother’s blessing — and resented the fact that someone so important to her had been given the job. Ms. Maffey had even decorated the note with a smiley-face emoticon, the same little flourish she used to scrawl at the top of fourth-grade homework assignments. Jill took the note and tucked it away in her jewelry box, promising herself that she wouldn’t get in touch, wouldn’t allow herself to be manipulated like that.

It would’ve been easier to keep this vow if she’d had a little more going on that spring, if she’d found some new friends to replace Aimee and the gang, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Most nights she was stuck at home, no one to talk to but her dad, who seemed a little more distracted than usual, depressed about Nora, consoling himself with dreams of softball glory. Max had been texting her a lot, encouraging her to come back to Dmitri’s, or maybe just hang out with him sometime, but she never replied. She was done with all that — the sex and the partying and all those people — and she wasn’t going back.

After a while it started to feel inevitable, almost mathematical — Jill was looking to fill the vacuum in her life, and Holly was the only plausible candidate. It had been such a shock to see her that day, looking so washed out and dreamy in her white clothes, so unlike the vivacious woman Jill remembered. Please e-mail me if you want to talk about anything! Well, there was a lot Jill wanted to talk about, questions she wanted to ask about Ms. Maffey’s spiritual journey and her life at the compound. She thought it might help her to understand her mother a little better, give her some insight into the G.R. that so far had eluded her. Because if a person like Holly could be happy there, maybe there was something Jill was missing, something she needed to find out about.

Do u like it there? she’d asked when she finally worked up the nerve to get in touch. It doesn’t seem like much fun.

I’m content, Ms. Maffey had replied. It’s a simple life.

But how can u live w.o. talking?

There’s so much to let go of, Jill, so many habits and crutches and expectations. But you have to let go. It’s the only way.

THE DAY after she became a blonde, Nora sat down to write her goodbye letters. It turned out to be a daunting task, made even more difficult by the fact that she couldn’t seem to sit still. She kept getting up from the kitchen table and wandering upstairs to admire herself in the full-length bedroom mirror, this blond stranger with the oddly familiar face.

The dye job was an unqualified success. It wasn’t just that the unfortunate outcomes she’d been warned about had failed to materialize: There were no bald spots or greenish undertones, and her bleached hair felt as soft and sleek as ever, miraculously impervious to the noxious chemicals in which it had been steeped. The big surprise wasn’t that nothing bad had happened, it was how good she looked as a blonde, far better than she had with her natural hair color.

The stylist had been right, of course: There was something jarring about the contrast between Nora’s Mediterranean complexion and this pale Swedish hair, but it was a riveting mismatch, the kind of mistake that made you want to stare, to try to figure out why something that should have looked so tacky actually looked kind of cool. All her life she’d been pretty, but it was an unremarkable, vaguely reassuring sort of beauty, the kind of everyday good looks people barely even noticed. Now, for the first time, she struck herself as exotic, and even a bit alarming, and she liked the way it felt, as if her body and soul had come into closer alignment.

Some selfish part of her was tempted to call Kevin and invite him over for a farewell drink — she wanted him to see her in this new incarnation, tell her how great she looked, and beg her not to leave — but the more reasonable part of her understood that this was a terrible idea. It would just be cruel, getting his hopes up one last time before crushing them forever. He was a good man, and she’d already hurt him enough.

That was the main thing she was hoping to express in her letter — the guilt she felt for the way she’d behaved on Valentine’s Day, walking out on him without a word, and then ignoring his calls and e-mails in the weeks that followed, sitting quietly in the darkness of her living room until he got tired of ringing the bell and slipped one of his plaintive notes under the door.

What did I do wrong? he wrote. Just tell me what it was so I can apologize.

You didn’t do anything, she’d wanted to tell him, though she never had. It was all my fault.

The thing was, Kevin had been her last chance. From the very beginning — the night they’d talked and danced at the mixer — she’d had a feeling that he might be able to save her, to show her how to salvage something decent and functional from the ruins of her old life. And for a little while there, she’d thought it had actually started to happen, that a chronic injury was slowly beginning to heal.

But she was just kidding herself, mistaking a wish for a change. She’d suspected it for a while, but didn’t see it clearly until that night at Pamplemousse, when he tried to talk to her about his son, and all she’d felt was bitterness and envy so strong it was indistinguishable from hatred, a burning, gnawing emptiness in the middle of her chest.

Fuck you, she kept thinking to herself. Fuck you and your precious son.

And the awful thing was, he didn’t even notice. He just kept talking like she was a normal person with a functioning heart, someone who’d understand a father’s happiness and share in a friend’s joy. And she just had to sit there in agony, knowing that there was something wrong with her that could never be repaired.

Please, she’d wanted to tell him. Stop wasting your breath.

THEY WERE sleeping together now, in the same king-size bed that had previously been used by Gus and Julian. It was a little creepy at first, but they’d gotten past the awkwardness. The bed was huge and comfy — it had some kind of high-tech Scandinavian mattress that remembered the shape of your body — and the window on Laurie’s side opened on to the backyard, which was teeming with spring vitality, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the morning breeze.

They hadn’t become lovers — not the way the guys had been, anyway — but they weren’t just friends anymore, either. A powerful sense of intimacy had grown between them in the past few weeks, a bond of complete trust that went beyond anything Laurie had shared with her husband. They were partners now, connected for all eternity.

For the moment, nothing was required of them. Their new housemates would arrive soon, and their little idyll would be over, but for now it felt like a sweet vacation, cuddling in bed until late morning, drinking tea and talking in quiet voices. Sometimes they cried, but not as often as they laughed. On pleasant afternoons, they walked together in the park.

They didn’t talk too much about what was coming. There wasn’t much to say, really; they had a job to do, and they would do it, just like Gus and Julian had, and the pair before them. Talking about it didn’t help; it only disturbed the peaceful bubble they were living in. Better to just concentrate on the present moment, the precious days and hours that remained, or let your mind drift backward, into the past. Meg spoke frequently about her wedding, the special day that had never happened.

“I wanted it to be traditional, you know? Classic. The gown and the veil and the train, the organ playing, my father walking me to the altar, Gary standing there with a tear rolling down his cheek. I just wanted that dream, those few minutes when everybody who mattered was looking at me and saying, Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t he the luckiest guy in the world? Is that how it was for you?”

“My wedding was a long time ago,” Laurie said. “All I remember is being really stressed out. You plan for so long, and the actual event never measures up to what you wanted it to be.”

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Meg speculated. “Reality never messed up my wedding.”

“That’s a nice way to think about it.”

“Gary and I fought about the bachelor party. His best man wanted to hire a stripper and I thought that was tacky.”

Laurie nodded and did her best to look interested, though she’d already heard this story several times. Meg didn’t seem to realize she was repeating herself, and Laurie didn’t bother to point it out: This was the mental space in which her friend had chosen to dwell. Laurie herself was more focused on the years when her kids were little, when she had felt so necessary and purposeful, a battery all charged up with love. Every day she used it up, and every night it got miraculously replenished. Nothing had ever been as good as that.

“I just hated the idea,” Meg went on. “A bunch of drunk guys cheering for this pathetic girl who’s probably a drug addict from an abusive home. And then what? Does she actually … service them while the others watch?”

“I don’t know,” Laurie said. “I guess that happens sometimes. Depends on the guys, I guess.”

“Can you imagine?” Meg squinted, as if straining to visualize the scene. “You’re in church, on the biggest day of your life, and here comes your bride, walking down the aisle like a princess dressed in white, and your parents are right over there in the front row, maybe even your grandparents, and all you can think about is the skank who gave you a lap dance the night before. Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you ruin a beautiful moment?”

“People did all sorts of crazy things back then,” Laurie said, as if referring to ancient history, a bygone era barely visible through the mists of time. “They had no idea.”

Dear Kevin,

By the time you read this, Nora will no longer exist.

Sorry — I guess that sounds more ominous than I meant it to. I just mean that I’ll be leaving Mapleton, heading somewhere else to start a new life as another person. You won’t see me again.

I hope it’s not rude to be telling you this in a letter, instead of face-to-face. But it’s hard enough for me to even do it like this. What I’d really like to do is just dissolve into thin air like the rest of my family, but you deserve better than that (not that people always get what they deserve).

What I want to tell you is: Thanks. I know how hard you tried to make things work with me — how many allowances you made, and how little you got in return. It’s not that I didn’t want to hold up my end — I would have given a lot to have risen to that occasion. But I couldn’t find the strength to make it happen, or maybe just the mechanism. Every minute we were together, I felt like I was wandering in the dark through a strange house, groping for a light switch. And then, whenever I found one and turned it on, the bulb was dead.

I know you wanted to know me, and that you had every right to try. That’s why we get involved with other people, right? Not just for their bodies, but for everything else, too — their dreams and their scars and their stories. Every time we were together, I could feel you holding back, tiptoeing around my privacy, giving me room to guard my secrets. I guess I should thank you for that. For your discretion and compassion — for being a gentleman.

But the thing is, I knew what you wanted to know, and I resented you for it. How’s that for a catch-22? I was mad at you for the questions you didn’t ask, the ones you didn’t ask because you thought that asking them would upset me. But you were biding your time, waiting and hoping, weren’t you?

So let me at least try to give you an answer. I feel like I owe you that much.

We were having a family dinner.

It sounds so quaint when you put it that way, doesn’t it? You imagine everyone together, talking and laughing and enjoying their meal. But it wasn’t like that. Things were tense between me and Doug. I understand now why that was, but at the time it just felt to me like he was distracted by work, not fully present in our life. He was always checking that damn Blackberry, snatching it up every time it buzzed like it might contain a message from God. Of course it wasn’t God, it was just his cute little girlfriend, but either way, it was more interesting to him than his own family. I still kind of hate him for that.

The kids weren’t happy, either. They were rarely happy in the evening. Mornings could be fun in our house, and bedtimes were usually sweet, but dinners were often a trial. Jeremy was cranky because … why? I wish I could tell you. Maybe because it’s hard to be six years old, or maybe because it was hard to be him. Little things made him cry, and his crying over little things irritated his father, who sometimes spoke sharply to him and made Jeremy even more upset. Erin was only four, but she had an instinct for getting under her brother’s skin, pointing out in a matter-of-fact voice that Jeremy was crying again, acting like a little baby, which made him absolutely furious.

I loved them all, okay? My cheating husband, my fragile boy, my sneaky little girl. But I didn’t love my life, not that night. I had worked really hard on the meal — it was this Moroccan chicken recipe I’d found in a magazine — and nobody cared. Doug thought the breasts were a little dry, Jeremy wasn’t hungry, blah blah blah. It was just a crappy night, that’s all.

And then Erin spilled her apple juice. No big deal, except that she’d made a big fuss about drinking from a cup without a top, even though I told her it was a bad idea. So what, right? It happens. I wasn’t one of those parents who gets all upset about something like that. But that night I was. I said, “Damn it, Erin, what did I tell you!” And then she started to cry.

I looked at Doug, waiting for him to get up and get some paper towels, but he didn’t move. He just smiled at me like none of this had anything to do with him, like he was floating above it all on some superior plane of existence. So of course I had to do it. I got up and went into the kitchen.

How long was I there? Thirty seconds, maybe? I gathered a handful of towels, winding them off the roll, wondering if I’d taken enough sheets, or had I possibly taken too many, because I didn’t want to make a second trip but didn’t want to be wasteful, either. I remember being conscious of the chaos I’d left behind, feeling relieved to be away from it, but also resentful and overburdened and unappreciated. I think maybe I closed my eyes, let my mind go blank for a second or two. That was when it must have happened. I remember noticing that the crying had stopped, that the house felt suddenly peaceful.

So what do you think I did when I got back to the dining room and found them gone? Do you think I screamed or cried or fainted? Or do you think I wiped up the spill, because the puddle was spreading across the table and would soon start dripping onto the floor?

You know what I did, Kevin.

I wiped up the fucking apple juice and then I went back into the kitchen, put the soggy paper towels in the garbage can, and rinsed my hands under the faucet. After I dried them, I went back to the dining room and took another look at the empty table, the plates and the glasses and the uneaten food. The vacant chairs. I really don’t know what happened after that. It’s like my memory just stops there and picks up a few weeks later.

Would it have helped if I told you this story in Florida? Or maybe on Valentine’s Day? Would you have felt like you knew me better? You could have told me what I already think I know — that the crying and the spilled juice aren’t really that important, that all parents get stressed out and angry and wish for a little peace and quiet. It’s not the same as wishing for the people you love to be gone forever.

But what if it is, Kevin? Then what?

I wish you every happiness. You were good to me, but I was beyond repair. I really did like it when you danced with me.

Love,

N

*

GRgrl405 (10:15:42 P.M.): how r u?

Jillpill123 (10:15:50 P.M.): just chillin. u?

GRgrl405 (10:15:57 P.M.): thinking bout u (:

Jillpill123 (10:16:04 P.M.): me 2 (:

GRgrl405 (10:16:11 P.M.): u shld come 4 a visit

Jillpill123 (10:16:23 P.M.): idk …

GRgrl405 (10:16:31 P.M.): ull like it here

Jillpill123 (10:16:47 P.M.): what wld we do?

GRgrl405 (10:16:56 P.M.): sleepover (:

Jillpill123 (10:17:07 P.M.):???!

GRgrl405 (10:17:16 P.M.): just a night or 2—c what u think

Jillpill123 (10:17:29 P.M.): what wd i tell my dad?

GRgrl405 (10:17:36 P.M.): yr call

Jillpill123 (10:17:55 P.M.): ill think about it

GRgrl405 (10:18:08 P.M.): no pressure when ur ready

Jillpill123 (10:18:22 P.M.): im scared

GRgrl405 (10:18:29 P.M.): its ok 2 b scared

Jillpill123 (10:18:52 P.M.): maybe next week?

GRgrl405 (10:18:58 P.M.): that wd be perfect (:

I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE

TOM WAS TELLING CHRISTINE ABOUT Mapleton as he drove, trying to sell her on the idea of an extended visit with his family, rather than an overnight stopover on the way to Ohio.

“It’s a pretty big house,” he said. “We could stay in my old room for as long as we want. I’m sure my father and sister would be happy to help with the baby.”

This was a bit presumptuous, since his father and sister didn’t even know he was on the way, let alone that he had company. He’d meant to give them a heads-up, but things had been pretty chaotic in the past few days; he figured it made more sense to play it by ear, keep his options open until they got within striking distance. The last thing he wanted to do was get his father’s hopes up and then disappoint him, as he had so many times in the past.

“It’s really nice there in the summer. There’s a big park a couple blocks away, and a lake where you can go swimming. One of my friends has a hot tub in his yard. And there’s a pretty good Indian restaurant downtown.”

He was improvising now, not sure if she was even listening. This side trip to Mapleton was a Hail Mary on his part, a way to buy a little more time with Christine and the baby before they drifted out of his life.

“I just wish my mother was still there. She’s the one who really—”

The baby let out a wail from her bucket in the backseat. She was a tiny thing, barely a week old, and didn’t have a lot of lung power. All she could produce was a strained little mewling sound, but Tom was amazed by how viscerally it affected him, jangling his nerve endings, filling him with a sense of urgency just short of total panic. All he could do was glance at her scrunched, angry face in the rearview mirror and plead with her in a syrupy voice that was already starting to feel like a second language.

“It’s okay, little one. Nothing to worry about. Just be patient, sweet pea. Everything’s copacetic. You go back to sleep now, okay?”

He pressed on the gas pedal and was startled by the engine’s eager response, the heroic leap of the speedometer needle. The car would’ve been happy to go even faster, but he eased off, knowing he couldn’t afford to get pulled over in a BMW that was either borrowed or stolen, depending on how the Falks chose to look at it.

“I think it’s about ten miles to the next rest area,” he said. “Did you see the sign a while back?”

Christine didn’t respond. She seemed almost catatonic in the passenger seat, sitting with her feet up and her knees tucked beneath her chin, staring straight ahead with a disconcertingly placid expression. She’d been like this the whole way, acting as though the infant in the backseat were a hitchhiker Tom had picked up, an unwelcome guest with absolutely no claim on her attention.

“Don’t cry, honey bun,” he called over his shoulder. “I know you’re hungry. We’re gonna get you a baba, okay?”

Amazingly, the baby seemed to understand. She released a few more sobs — soft, hiccupy whimpers that sounded more like aftershocks than actual protests — and then fell back asleep. Tom glanced at Christine, hoping for a smile, or even just a nod of acknowledgment, but she seemed just as oblivious to the quiet as she’d been to the noise.

“A nice big baba,” he murmured, more to himself than his passengers.

CHRISTINE’S INABILITY to connect with the baby had begun to frighten him. She still hadn’t given the child a name, rarely spoke to her, never touched her, and avoided looking at her whenever possible. Before leaving the hospital, she’d gotten a shot that stopped her from lactating, and since then she had been more than happy to let Tom handle all the feeding, changing, and bathing duties.

He couldn’t blame her for feeling a little shell-shocked; he was still a little shell-shocked himself. Everything had fallen apart so quickly after Mr. Gilchrest’s guilty plea and humiliating confession, in which he publicly outed himself as a serial rapist of teenage girls and begged for forgiveness from his “real wife,” who he claimed was the only woman he’d ever loved. Furious at his betrayal, Christine had gone into labor the very next day, shrieking in agony at the first contraction, demanding that she be taken to the hospital and given the strongest drugs available. The Falks were too demoralized to object; even they seemed to understand that they’d reached the end of the road, that the prophecies that had sustained them were nothing but pipe dreams.

Tom stayed with Christine throughout the nine-hour labor, holding her hand while she drifted in and out of a drug-induced delirium, cursing the father of her child so bitterly that even the delivery room nurses were impressed. He watched in amazement as the baby squirted into the world, fists clenched, puffy eyes glued shut, her jet-black hair plastered with blood and other murky fluids. The doctor let Tom cut the cord, then placed the child in his arms, as if she belonged to him.

“This is your daughter,” he told Christine, offering the naked, squirmy bundle like a gift. “Say hi to your little girl.”

“Go away,” she told him, turning her head to keep from looking at the Miracle Child who no longer seemed like such a miracle. “Get it away from me.”

They returned to the Falks’ the following afternoon, only to find Terrence and Marcella gone. There was a note on the kitchen table—Hope it went okay. We’re out of town until Monday. Please be gone when we return! — along with an envelope containing a thousand dollars in cash.

“What are we gonna do?” he asked.

Christine didn’t have to think for long.

“I should go home,” she said. “Back to Ohio.”

“Really?”

“Where else can I go?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“No,” she said. “I need to go home.”

They stayed at the Falks’ for four more days, during which Christine did almost nothing but sleep. That whole time, while he was changing diapers and mixing formula and stumbling around the dark house in the middle of the night, Tom kept waiting for her to wake up and tell him what he already knew, which was that it was all okay, that everything had actually worked out for the best. They were a little family now, free to love one another and do as they pleased. They could go barefoot together, a band of happy nomads, drifting with the wind. But it hadn’t happened yet, and there weren’t that many miles between here and Ohio.

TOM WAS aware of the fact that he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was too exhausted for sober reflection, too focused on the baby’s bottomless needs, and his fear of losing Christine. But he knew he needed to prepare himself for the ordeal of going back home, the questions that would arise when he pulled up in front of his father’s house in a German luxury sedan he didn’t own, with a bullseye on his forehead, accompanied by a severely depressed girl he’d never mentioned and a baby that wasn’t his. There was going to be a lot of explaining to do.

“Listen,” he said, slowing down as they approached the entrance to the rest area. “I hate to keep bugging you about this, but you really need to give the baby a name.”

She nodded vaguely, not really agreeing, just letting him know she was listening. They headed up the access ramp to the main parking lot.

“It’s weird, you know? She’s almost a week old. What am I supposed to say to my dad? This is my friend, Christine, and this is her nameless baby?”

Traffic had been light on the highway, but the rest area was packed, as if the whole world had decided to pee at the same time. They got stuck in a slow parade, no one pulling in unless someone else pulled out.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he went on. “Just think of a flower or a bird or a month. Call her Rose or Robin or Iris or April or whatever. Anything is better than nothing.”

He waited for a Camry to back out, then slipped into the space it had vacated. He put the car into park but didn’t shut off the engine. Christine turned to look at him. There was a maroon-and-gold bullseye on her forehead — it matched his own and the baby’s — that Tom had painted on in the morning, right before they left Cambridge. It was like a team insignia, he thought, a mark of tribal belonging. Christine’s face was pale and blank below it, but it seemed to be emitting a painful radiance, reflecting back the love he was beaming in her direction, the love she refused to absorb.

“Why don’t you choose,” she told him. “It really doesn’t matter to me.”

KEVIN CHECKED his phone. It was 5:08; he needed to grab something to eat, change into his uniform, and get to the softball field by six. It was doable, but only if Aimee left for work in the next few minutes.

The sun was low and hot, blazing through the treetops. He was parked near the closed end of the cul-de-sac, four doors down from his own house, facing into the glare. Not ideal, but the best he could do under the circumstances, the only vantage point in Lovell Terrace that allowed him to keep tabs on his front door without being immediately visible to anyone entering or leaving the house.

He had no idea what was taking Aimee so long. She was usually gone by four, off to serve the early birds at Applebee’s. He wondered if she was under the weather, or maybe had the night off and had neglected to mention it. If that was the case, then he’d have to rethink his options.

It was ridiculous that he didn’t know, because he’d just talked to her on the phone a few minutes ago. He’d called for Jill, as he often did in the late afternoon, checking to see if they needed anything from the grocery store, but it was Aimee who picked up.

Hey, she said, sounding more serious than usual. How was your day?

Fine. He hesitated. Kinda weird, actually.

Tell me about it.

He ignored the invitation.

Is Jill there?

No, just me.

That was his opening to ask why she hadn’t left for work, but he was too flustered for that, too distracted by the thought of Aimee alone in the house.

No problem, he said. Just tell her I called, okay?

He slumped down in the driver’s seat, hoping to make himself a little less conspicuous to Eileen Carnahan, who was heading down the sidewalk in his direction, taking her geriatric cocker spaniel for his pre-dinner stroll. Eileen craned her head — she was wearing a floppy tan sun hat — and squinted at him with a puzzled expression, trying to figure out if something was wrong. Pressing his phone to his ear, Kevin fended her off with an apologetic smile and a can’t-talk-now wave, doing his best to look like a busy man taking care of important business, and not a creep who was spying on his own house.

Kevin comforted himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t crossed any irrevocable lines, at least not yet. But he’d been thinking about it all day, and no longer trusted himself to be alone with Aimee, not after what had happened that morning. Better to keep his distance for a while, reestablish the proper boundaries, the ones that seemed to have dissolved in the past few weeks. Like the fact that she no longer called him Mr. Garvey, or even Kevin.

Hey Kev, she’d said, wandering sleepy-eyed into the kitchen.

Morning, he’d replied, walking toward the cupboard with a stack of small plates balanced on his palm, still warm from the dishwasher.

He wasn’t aware of anything flirtatious in her voice or manner. She was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, pretty tame by her standards. All he registered was his usual feeling of being happy to see her, grateful for the jolt of good energy she always provided. Instead of heading for the coffeemaker, she veered toward the refrigerator, opening the door and looking inside. She stood there for a while, as if lost in thought.

Need something? he asked.

She didn’t reply. Turning away from the cupboard — just trying to help — he drifted up behind her, peering over her head into the familiar jumble of cartons and jars and Tupperware containers, the meats and vegetables in their transparent plastic drawers.

Yogurt, she said, turning and smiling up at him, her face so close that he caught a subtle whiff of her morning breath, which was a little stale but not unpleasant — not at all. I’m going on a diet.

He laughed, as if this were a ridiculous project — which it was — but she insisted she was serious. One of them must have moved — either he leaned forward or she leaned back, or maybe both those things happened at the same time — because suddenly she was right there, pressing up against him, the warmth of her body passing through two layers of fabric so that it felt to him like skin against skin. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her waist, just above the gentle flare of her hipbone. At almost the same moment, she tilted her head back, letting it rest against his chest. It felt completely natural to be standing like that, and also terrifying, as if they were perched on the edge of a cliff. He was intensely aware of the elastic waistband of her pants, an intriguing tautness beneath his palm.

On the door, he told her after a hesitation that was a lot longer than it needed to be.

Oh yeah, she said, abruptly breaking the connection as she turned. Why didn’t I know that?

She grabbed the yogurt and headed for the table, flashing him a sidelong smile as she sat. He finished emptying the dishwasher, his mind buzzing, the memory of her body like a physical sensation, imprinted on his flesh as if he were made of very soft clay. A whole day had gone by and it was still there, right where she’d left it.

“Fuck,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, not quite sure if he was regretting the incident, or trying to remember it a little more clearly.

LAURIE COULDN’T blame the pizza guy for looking surprised, not when she was standing in the doorway in her white clothes, holding up a hand-lettered sign that read: HOW MUCH?

“Uh, twenty-two,” he mumbled, doing his best to sound casual as he withdrew two boxes from an insulated pouch. He was just a kid, about the same age as her own son, broad-shouldered and appealingly scruffy in cargo shorts and flip-flops, as if he’d stopped off at Parker Road on his way to the beach.

They performed the awkward exchange, Laurie taking possession of the pizzas, the kid relieving her of two tens and a five, a huge expenditure of petty cash. She stepped back from the doorway, shaking her head to let him know that no change was necessary.

“Thanks.” He pocketed the bills, tilting his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on inside the house, losing interest when he realized there was nothing behind her but an empty hallway. “Have a nice night.”

She carried the warm, flimsy boxes into the dining room and set them on the table, registering the anxious but clearly excited looks on the faces of the new guys, Al and Josh. After months of meager rations at the Ginkgo Street compound, takeout pizza from Tonnetti’s must have seemed like an impossible, almost indecent luxury, as if they’d died and gone to a heaven of self-indulgence.

They’d moved in just three days ago and had quickly established themselves as ideal housemates — clean, quiet, and helpful. Al was around Laurie’s age, a short, impish guy with a gray-flecked beard, a former environmental consultant for an architecture firm. Josh was in his early thirties, a good-looking former software salesman, lanky and morose, with a tendency to stare at everyday objects — forks and sponges and pencils — as if encountering them for the first time.

Not too long ago, Laurie thought, she and Meg would have been intrigued by the arrival of two reasonably attractive, age-appropriate men in their lives. They would have stayed up late, whispering in the dark about the newcomers, commenting on Al’s cute smile, wondering if Josh was one of those emotionally stunted guys who would turn out not to be worth the work you’d have to put in to get him to come out of his shell. But it was too late for that sort of entertainment. They’d cut their ties; Al and Josh belonged to a world they’d already left behind.

Guessing correctly, Laurie opened the box that contained the mushroom and black olive pizza — there was also a sausage and onion for the carnivores — that Meg had specifically requested. The aroma that engulfed her was rich and complex, as full of memories as an old song on the car radio. Laurie was unprepared for the tenacity of the melted cheese as she lifted out the first slice, the improbable weight in her hand when it broke free. Moving slowly, trying to invest the act with the sense of ceremony it deserved, she set the slice on a plate and offered the plate to Meg.

I love you, she said, speaking only with her eyes. You’re so brave.

I love you, too, Meg silently replied. You’re my sister.

They ate in silence. Al and Josh tried not to look too greedy, but they couldn’t restrain themselves, reaching for slice after slice, taking way more than their fair share. Laurie didn’t mind. She wasn’t very hungry, and Meg had only taken a single bite of the food she claimed to have been dreaming about for months. Laurie smiled sadly at the ravenous men across the table. They were innocents, just like she and Meg had been when they’d arrived at Outpost 17, blissfully unaware of the beautiful tradition they’d been chosen to uphold.

It’s okay, she thought. Enjoy it while you can.

CHRISTINE HURRIED off to the restroom, leaving Tom to prepare the bottle in the front seat, heating the water with a handy device that connected to the cigarette lighter. When it was the right temperature, he added a single-serving packet of formula, shaking vigorously to make sure it was all mixed in. He performed these actions in a state of exquisite suspense, checking the mirror every few seconds to make sure the baby was still asleep. He knew from experience how hard it was to properly assemble a bottle when she was squealing with hunger. Something always went wrong: The plastic bag wouldn’t open, or it would slip out of the holder, or it had a tiny pinhole in the bottom, or you didn’t screw the top on right, or whatever. It was amazing how many ways there were to botch such a simple operation.

This time, though, the gods were on his side. He got the bottle all set, extricated the baby from her bucket without waking her, and carried her to the picnic area, where they found a shady bench. The baby didn’t open her eyes until the nipple touched her lips. She snuffled around a bit and then pounced, latching on hard, sucking with a ferocity that made Tom laugh out loud, the bottle jerking rhythmically in his hand. It reminded him of fishing, the jolt when you got a bite, the shock of being connected to another life.

“You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”

The baby gazed up at him as she gulped and snorted — not adoringly, Tom thought, or even gratefully, but at least tolerantly, like she was thinking, I have no idea who you are, but I guess I’m okay with that.

“I know I’m not your mother,” he whispered. “But I’m doing the best I can.”

Christine was gone for a long time, long enough for the baby to drain the bottle and Tom to start worrying. He hoisted the baby upright, patting her back until she released a cute little burp that seemed a lot less cute when he felt a familiar, disheartening dampness on his shoulder. He hated the sour smell of spit-up, the way it clung to your clothes and lingered in your nostrils, a far more insidious substance than baby poop.

The baby started fussing, so Tom took her for a walk around the grounds, which she seemed to appreciate. The rest area was a modest one — no restaurant or gas station, just a bland one-story building with bathrooms, vending machines, and shelves of informational brochures about the wonders of Connecticut — but it took up a surprising amount of space. There was a six-table picnic area, a dog walk, and a secondary parking lot for trucks and RVs.

Wandering past the big vehicles, Tom was hailed by a group of Barefoot People in a maroon Dodge Caravan with Michigan plates. There were five of them, three guys and two girls, all of them college-aged. While the girls were cooing at the baby — they seemed especially charmed by the dime-sized bullseye on her forehead — a red-haired guy with a knotted bandana head rag asked Tom if he was heading to Mount Pocono for the monthlong solstice festival.

“It’ll be raucous,” he said, grimacing as he raised one arm and scratched diligently at his rib cage. “Way better than last year.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said with a shrug. “Kinda hard with a baby.”

One of the girls looked up. She had a hot body, a bad complexion, and one missing tooth.

“I’ll babysit,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, right,” laughed one of her friends, a handsome dude with an unpleasant expression. “In between gang bangs.”

“Fuck you,” she told him. “I’m really good with kids.”

“Except when she’s tripping,” the third guy chimed in. He was big and beefy, a football player going to seed. “And she’s tripping all the time.”

“You guys are assholes,” the second girl observed.

CHRISTINE WAS waiting by the BMW, watching him with a pensive expression, her black hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“Where were you?” she asked. “I thought maybe you ditched me.”

“Feeding the baby.” He held up the empty bottle for her inspection. “She took the whole thing.”

“Huh,” she grunted, not even bothering to pretend that she cared.

“I ran into some Barefoot People. A whole van full. They said there’s a big festival in the Poconos.”

Christine said she’d talked to one of the girls in the bathroom. “She was all excited. Said it was the biggest party of the year.”

“We could maybe check it out,” Tom said cautiously. “If you want. I think it’s on the way to Ohio.”

“Whatever,” she said. “You’re the boss.”

Her voice was dull, profoundly uninterested. Tom felt a sudden impulse to slap her across the face — not to hurt her, just to wake her up — and had to restrain himself until it passed.

“Look,” he said. “I know you’re upset. But you shouldn’t take it out on me. I’m not the one who hurt you.”

“I know,” she assured him. “I’m not mad at you.”

Tom glanced at the baby. “What about your daughter? Why are you so mad at her?”

Christine rubbed her stomach, a habit she’d developed during pregnancy. Her voice was barely audible.

“I was supposed to have a son.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you didn’t.”

She squinted past Tom, watching a family of blond people emerge from an Explorer across the way — two tall parents, three little kids, and a yellow Lab.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“No,” he said. “That’s not the problem at all.”

She laughed softly. It was a bitter, helpless sound.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to hold your daughter,” he said, stepping forward and pressing the baby into her arms before she had time to resist. “Just for a couple minutes, while I go to the men’s room. You think you can manage that?”

Christine didn’t answer the question. She just glared at him, holding the baby as far away from her body as she could manage, as if it were the source of a troubling odor. He gave her an encouraging pat on the arm.

“And think about those names,” he told her.

THE GAME calmed Kevin’s nerves, as he knew it would. He loved the way time slowed down on the baseball diamond, the way your focus narrowed down to the facts at hand: two down, bottom of the third, runners on first and second, a count of two balls and one strike.

“All you, Gonzo!” he called from the outfield, not sure if his voice was loud enough to reach the ears of Bob Gonzalves, the Carpe Diem’s ace pitcher, or if Gonzo was even listening. He was one of those guys who got into the zone when he pitched, disappeared deep into his own head. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if the handful of women in the bleachers took off their shirts and started screaming out their phone numbers.

Call me, Gonzo! Don’t make me beg!

That was another thing Kevin loved about softball: the fact that you could be a middle-aged, beer-bellied construction estimator like Gonzo — a guy who could barely jog to first base without risking a heart attack — and still be a star, a slow-pitch wizard whose deceptive underhand tosses seemed to float like cream puffs toward the batter, only to plummet over the strike zone like a shot duck.

“You da man!” Kevin chanted, pounding his mitt for emphasis. “Nothing to worry about!”

He was standing out in left center with huge expanses of grass on either side of him. Only eight Carpe Diem guys had shown up, and the team had decided to play with one less outfielder than usual, rather than leave a gaping hole in the infield. That meant a lot of extra ground for Kevin to cover, with the coppery, low-hanging sun shining directly into his eyes.

He didn’t mind; he was just happy to be there, doing the best possible thing a man could be doing on a beautiful evening like this. He’d made it to the field with just a few minutes to spare, saved by Jill’s timely appearance at twenty after five. With his daughter running interference, Kevin was able to pop inside and change into his uniform — white stretch pants and a pale blue T-shirt with Carpe Diem written in old-fashioned script above the image of a beer mug — then grab an apple and a bottle of water, all without even catching a glimpse of Aimee, let alone having to navigate any potentially awkward situations.

The next pitch was way outside, bringing the count to three and one on Rick Sansome, a mediocre hitter at best. The last thing Gonzo wanted to do was walk Sansome and have to face Larry Tallerico with the bases loaded. Tallerico was a beast, a scowling, sunburned bruiser who’d once hit a ball so far it had never been found.

“Easy does it!” Kevin shouted. “Make him swing!”

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, trying to ignore the lingering sense of shame that had dogged him all day. He knew just how close he and Aimee had come to making a terrible mistake, and he was determined not to let it happen again. He was a grown man, a supposedly responsible adult. It was up to him to take charge of the situation, to lay out the ground rules in an honest and forthright manner. All he had to do was sit down with her first thing in the morning, acknowledge what was going on between them, and tell her that it needed to stop.

You’re a very attractive girl, he would say. I’m sure you know that. And we’ve gotten pretty close in the past few weeks — a lot closer than we should have.

And then he would explain, as bluntly as he needed to, that there could never be anything romantic or sexual between them. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to Jill, and I’m not the kind of man who would put either of you in that position. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It would be uncomfortable, there was no question about that, but not nearly as uncomfortable as doing nothing, allowing themselves to feign innocence as they continued down the dangerous path they were on. What would be next? A chance encounter in the hallway outside his bedroom? Aimee in nothing but a towel, mumbling an apology as she squeezed by, their shoulders brushing as she passed?

Sansome fouled off the next pitch and the one after that, hanging on for dear life. Gonzo’s next pitch sailed so high over his head that Steve Wiscziewski had to leap out of his crouch to grab it.

“Ball four!” bellowed the umpire. “Take your base!”

The runners advanced as Sansome trotted to first. Hoping to calm Gonzo’s nerves, Steve called time-out and walked out to the mound for a conference. Pete Thorne wandered in from shortstop to put his two cents in. While they chatted, Kevin retreated deeper into the outfield, showing his respect for Tallerico’s power. With Carpe Diem up by three, they could afford to give up a run or two. What he wanted to avoid was a scenario in which the ball sailed over his head, and he had to chase it down and nail a long throw to the relay man to prevent a grand slam.

“Let’s play ball!”

Pete and Steve returned to their positions. Tallerico lumbered up to the plate, tapping the surface with the fat end of his bat, doing an amused double-take when he saw how far away Kevin was standing, maybe ten yards from the edge of the woods. Kevin took off his blue hat and waved it in the air, hailing the big man, inviting him to bring it on.

Gonzo wound up and pitched, dropping a fat one right over the plate. Tallerico just stood there and watched it fall, not the least bit fazed when the ump called strike one. Kevin tried to imagine the conversation he would have to have with Aimee at the breakfast table, wondering how she’d take it, and how he’d feel when it was over. He’d lost so much in the past few years — everyone had — and had worked so hard to stay strong and keep a positive attitude, not only for himself, but also for Jill, and for his friends and neighbors, and for everybody else in town. For Nora, too — especially for Nora, though that hadn’t worked out so well. And right now he was feeling the weight of all those losses, and the weight of the years that were behind him, and the weight of the ones that were still ahead, however many there might be — three or four, twenty or thirty, maybe more. He was attracted to Aimee, sure — he was willing to admit that much — but he didn’t want to sleep with her, not really, not in the real world. What he was going to miss was her smile in the morning, and the hopeful feeling she gave him, the conviction that fun was still possible, that you were more than the sum of what had been taken from you. It was hard to think about giving that up, especially when there was nothing waiting to replace it.

The chink of the aluminum bat snapped him out of his reverie. He saw the flash of the ball as it rose, then lost it in the sun. Raising his bare hand to shield his eyes, he stumbled backward, then a little bit to the right, instinctively calibrating the trajectory of an object he couldn’t see. It must have been a towering shot, because it seemed for a second or two that the ball had left the earth’s atmosphere and wouldn’t be coming down. And then he saw it, a bright speck streaking across the sky, arcing downward. He lifted his arm and opened his glove. The ball dropped into the pocket with a resounding smack, as if it had been heading there the whole time and was happy to reach its destination.

JILL ASKED if she should wear white to the sleepover, but Ms. Maffey told her it wasn’t necessary.

Just bring yourself and a sleeping bag, she wrote. Things are pretty casual at the Guest House. And don’t worry about the Vow of Silence. We can talk in whispers. It’ll be fun!

As a gesture of when-in-Rome goodwill, Jill picked out a stretchy white T-shirt to wear with her jeans, and then packed an overnight bag with pajamas, a change of underwear, and a few toiletries. At the last second, she added an envelope containing a dozen family photographs — a sort of rough draft of a Memory Book — just in case her visit lasted longer than a single night.

Aimee wasn’t usually home in the evenings, but Jill had heard her moving around in the guest room, so she wasn’t all that surprised to go downstairs and find her sitting on the living room couch. What did surprise her were the suitcases flanking Aimee’s feet, matching blue canvas wheelbags that Jill’s parents had bought when Tom was still in high school, when the whole family went to Tuscany for spring vacation.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, conscious of the rolled-up sleeping bag dangling from her own hand. They could have been taking a trip together, waiting for a ride to the airport.

“I’m leaving,” Aimee explained. “It’s about time I got out of your hair.”

“Oh.” Jill nodded for longer than necessary, waiting for the meaning of Aimee’s words to sink in. “My dad didn’t tell me.”

“He doesn’t know.” Aimee’s smile lacked its usual confidence. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“You’re not going home, are you? Back to your stepfather’s?”

“God, no.” Aimee sounded horrified by the thought. “I’m never going back there.”

“So where…?”

“There’s a girl I met at work. Mimi. She’s pretty cool. She lives with her parents, but it’s like a separate basement apartment. She says it’s okay if I crash there for a while.”

“Wow.” Jill felt a twinge of jealousy. She remembered how amazing it had been when Aimee first moved in, the two of them as close as sisters, their lives all tangled together. “Good for you.”

Aimee shrugged; it was hard to tell if she was proud of herself or embarrassed. “That’s what I do, right? I make friends with people at work and then I move into their houses. Then I stay for way longer than I should.”

“It was fun,” Jill murmured. “We were happy to have you.”

“What about you?” Aimee wondered. “Where you off to?”

“Just — to a friend’s,” Jill said after a brief hesitation. “No one you know.”

Aimee nodded indifferently, no longer curious about the details of Jill’s social life. Her eyes took a nostalgic tour of the living room — the wide-screen TV, the comfy sectional, the painting of a humble shack illuminated by a streetlight.

“I really liked it here,” she said. “This was the best place I ever lived.”

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“It’s time,” Aimee told her. “I probably should’ve left a few months ago.”

“My dad’s gonna miss you. You really cheered him up.”

“I’m gonna write him a letter,” Aimee promised, speaking to Jill’s feet instead of her face. “Just tell him I said thanks for everything, okay?”

“Sure.”

It felt to Jill like there was something else that needed to be said, but she couldn’t think of what it was, and Aimee wasn’t helping. They were both relieved when a horn sounded outside.

“That’s my ride.”

Aimee stood up and looked at Jill. She seemed to be trying to smile.

“I guess this is it.”

“I guess so.”

Aimee stepped forward, reaching out for a farewell hug. Jill responded as best she could with her one free hand. The horn sounded again.

“Last summer?” Aimee said. “You kinda saved my life.”

“It was the other way around,” Jill assured her.

Aimee laughed softly and hefted up her luggage.

“I’m just borrowing these. I’ll bring them back in a few days.”

“Whenever,” Jill replied. “There’s no rush.”

She stood in the doorway and watched her former best friend in the world roll the suitcases out to a blue Mazda waiting by the curb. Aimee opened the back hatch, stowed the bags, and then turned to wave goodbye. Jill felt an emptiness open inside of her as she lifted her arm, a sense that something vital was being subtracted from her life. It was always like that when somebody you cared about went away, even when you knew it was inevitable, and it probably wasn’t your fault.

UNBELIEVABLE, TOM thought as he drove down Washington Boulevard for the first time in more than two years. It looks exactly the same.

He wasn’t sure why this bothered him. Maybe just because he’d changed so much since the last time he’d been home, he figured that Mapleton should have changed, too. But everything was right where it was supposed to be — the Safeway, Big Mike’s Discount Shoes, Taco Bell, Walgreens, that ugly green tower looming over the Burger King, bristling with cell phone antennae and satellite dishes. And then that other landscape, when he turned off the main drag onto the quiet streets where people actually lived, the suburban dreamworld of perfect lawns and groomed shrubbery, tipped-over tricycles and little insecticide flags, their yellow banners hanging limp in the evening doldrums.

“We’re almost there,” he told the baby.

It was just the two of them now, and she’d been sleeping the whole way. They’d waited around the rest area for a half hour, in case Christine decided to turn up, but that was just a formality. He knew she was gone, had known it the moment he returned from the bathroom and found the baby girl alone in the car, buckled into her little seat, gazing up at him with glassy, reproachful eyes. And, even worse, Tom knew it was his own fault: He’d spooked Christine, shoving the child into her arms like that, when she clearly wasn’t ready.

He searched the car, but there was no note, no apology, not a word of thanks or explanation, not even a simple goodbye to the loyal friend who’d supported and protected her when no one else would, her cross-country traveling companion and almost-boyfriend, surrogate father to her child. He scoured the parking lot, too, but found no trace of her, or of the van full of Barefoot People headed for the Poconos.

Once the initial shock subsided, he tried to convince himself that it was all for the best, that his life would be easier without her. She was just dead weight in the car, one more burden he had to carry from place to place, every bit as selfish and demanding as the infant she’d abandoned, and a lot harder to satisfy. He’d been kidding himself, thinking she was going to wake up one morning and suddenly realize that she was better off with him than she would’ve been with Mr. Gilchrest.

You missed out, he thought. I was the one who loved you.

But that was the problem, the one his mind kept returning to as he steered the BMW toward the place that used to be home: He loved her and she was gone. It hurt to think of her rolling down the highway in that van full of Barefoot kids, all of them talking about the big party, all the crazy fun they would have. Christine probably wasn’t even listening, just sitting there thinking how good it was to be free, away from the baby and from Tom, too, the two people who couldn’t help reminding her of everything that had gone wrong, and what a fool she’d been.

It hurt him even more to think of her emerging from the fog a week or maybe a month down the road, discovering that the worst was over, that she could laugh and dance again, maybe even hook up with some lucky stoned idiot. And where would Tom be? Back home in Mapleton with his father and sister, raising a child who wasn’t even his, still pining for a girl who’d left him at a rest stop in Connecticut? Was that where his long journey was going to deposit him? Right back where he started, just with a bullseye on his forehead and a dirty diaper in his hand?

The sun had set by the time he turned onto Lovell Terrace, but the sky was still a deep blue above his family’s big white house.

“Little baby,” he said. “What am I gonna do with you?”

DON’T HESITATE. That was guideline number one. The martyr’s exit should be swift and painless.

“Come on,” Meg pleaded. She was leaning against a brick wall beneath an outdoor staircase at Bailey Elementary, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. The barrel of the gun was only an inch or so from her temple.

“Just a second,” Laurie said. “My hand’s shaking.”

“It’s all right,” Meg reminded her. “You’re doing me a favor.”

Laurie took a deep calming breath. You can do this. She was prepared. She’d learned how to shoot the gun and had faithfully performed the visualization exercises included in the instructional memo.

Squeeze the trigger. Imagine a flash of golden light transporting the martyr directly to heaven.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” she said. “I took a double dose of the Ativan.”

“Don’t think about it,” Meg reminded her. “Just do it and walk away.”

That was Laurie’s mantra for the evening, her task in a nutshell: Do it and walk away. A car would be waiting at the corner of Elm and Lakewood. She didn’t know where they were taking her, only that it would be far from Mapleton and very peaceful there.

“I’m gonna count down from ten,” Meg told her. “Don’t let me get to one.”

The pistol was small and silver, with a black plastic grip. It wasn’t that heavy, but it took all of Laurie’s strength to hold it steady.

“Ten … nine…”

She glanced over her shoulder, making sure the schoolyard was empty. When they’d arrived a couple of adolescent girls were gossiping on the swings, but Laurie and Meg had stared at them until they left.

“Eight … seven…”

Meg’s eyes were closed, her face tense with anticipation.

“Six…”

Laurie told her finger to move, but her finger wouldn’t obey.

“Five…”

She’d gone to all that trouble to tear herself away from her family and friends, to withdraw from the world, to move beyond earthly comfort and human attachments. She’d left her husband, abandoned her daughter, shut her mouth, surrendered herself to God and the G.R.

“Four…”

It was hard, but she’d done it. It was as if she’d reached up with her own hand and plucked out one of her eyes, no anesthetic, no regret.

“Three…”

She’d made herself into a different person, tougher and more submissive at the same time. A servant without desire, with nothing to lose, ready to obey God’s will, to come when called.

“Two…”

But then Meg had shown up, and they’d spent all that time together, and now she was right back where she’d started — weak and sentimental, full of doubt and longing.

“One…”

Meg clenched her teeth, preparing for the inevitable. After a few seconds went by, she opened her eyes. Laurie saw a flicker of relief in her face, and then a flood of annoyance.

“Goddammit,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry.” Laurie lowered the gun. “I can’t do it.”

“You have to. You promised.”

“But you’re my friend.”

“I know.” Meg’s voice was softer now. “That’s why I need you to help me. So I won’t have to do it myself.”

“You don’t have to do it at all.”

“Laurie,” Meg groaned. “Why are you making this so hard?”

“Because I’m weak,” Laurie admitted. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Meg held out her hand.

“Give me the gun.”

She spoke with such calm authority, such utter faith in the mission, that Laurie felt a kind of awe, and even a certain amount of pride. It was hard to believe that this was the frightened young woman who’d cried herself to sleep her first night in Blue House, the Trainee who couldn’t breathe in the supermarket.

“I love you,” Laurie whispered as she handed over the pistol.

“I love you, too,” Meg said, but there was an odd flatness in her voice, as if her soul had already left her body, as if it hadn’t bothered to wait for the deafening explosion a moment later, and that imaginary flash of golden light.

NORA KNEW it was ridiculous, walking all the way across town to deliver a letter she could just as easily have dropped into a mailbox, but it was a beautiful evening, and she didn’t have anything else to do. At least this way she’d know for sure that the letter hadn’t gotten lost or delayed by the Post Office. She could just cross it off her list and move on to the next task. That was the real point of this exercise — to do something, to stop procrastinating and take a small concrete step in the right direction.

Leaving town and starting a new life was turning out to be a bigger challenge than she’d expected. She’d had that manic burst of energy last week — that exhilarating vision of her blond pseudonymous future — but it had faded quickly, replaced by an all-too-familiar inertia. She couldn’t think of a new name for her new self, couldn’t decide where she wanted to go, hadn’t called the lawyer or the real estate broker to arrange for the sale of her house. All she’d done was ride her bike until her legs ached and her fingers went numb, and her mind was too tired to put up a fight.

It was the prospect of selling the house that had tripped her up. She needed to get rid of it, she understood that, not just for the money, but for the psychological freedom that would come with leaving it behind, the bright line between before and after. But how could she do that when it was the only home her kids had ever known, the first place they’d go if they ever came back. She knew they weren’t coming back, of course — at least she thought she knew that — but this knowledge didn’t stop her from tormenting herself, letting herself imagine the disappointment and bewilderment they’d feel — the sense of abandonment — when a stranger answered the door instead of their own mother.

I can’t do that to them, she thought.

Just this afternoon, though, she’d hit on a solution. Instead of selling the house, she could rent it through an agency, make sure someone knew how to get in touch with her in the event of a miracle. It wasn’t the clean break she’d been fantasizing about — she’d probably have to keep using her own name, for one thing, at least for the rental agreement — but it was a compromise she could live with. Tomorrow morning she’d head down to Century 21 and work out the details.

She picked up the pace as she neared Lovell Terrace. The sky was dimming, the night settling in on its lazy warm weather schedule. Kevin’s softball game would be over soon — she’d made sure to check the online schedule — and she wanted to be far away from this neighborhood by the time he got back. She had no desire to see him or talk to him, didn’t want to be reminded of what a nice guy he was, or how much she enjoyed his company. There was nothing to be gained from that, not anymore.

She hesitated for a moment in front of his house. She’d never been there before — she’d made a point of staying away — and was startled by the size of it, a three-story colonial set way back from the street, with a gently sloping lawn big enough for a game of touch football. There was a small arched roof over the front entrance, a bronze mailbox mounted beside the door.

Come on, she told herself. You can do this.

She was nervous as she made her way up the driveway and across the stone path that led to the steps. It was one thing to have a fantasy of disappearing, of leaving your friends and family behind, and another thing to go ahead and make it real. Saying goodbye to Kevin was a real thing, the kind of action you couldn’t take back.

You won’t see me again, she’d written in the letter.

There was a lantern hanging in the archway, but it wasn’t lit, and the area below it seemed darker than the rest of the world. Nora was so focused on the mailbox that she didn’t notice the bulky object resting on the stoop until she almost tripped right over it. She let out a gasp when she realized what it was, then knelt down for a closer look.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”

The baby was fast asleep in its car seat, a tiny newborn with squirrelly cheeks, vaguely Asian features, and a fine fuzz of black hair. A familiar smell rose from its body, the unmistakable sweet-and-sour fragrance of new life. There was a diaper bag next to the car seat, with a scrawled note tucked into an outside pocket. Nora had to squint to read what it said: This little girl has no name. Please take good care of her.

She turned back to the baby. Her heart was suddenly beating way too fast.

“Where’s your mommy?” she asked. “Where’d she go?”

The baby opened her eyes. There was no fear in her gaze.

“Don’t you have a mommy or daddy?”

The baby blew a spit bubble.

“Does anybody know you’re here?”

Nora glanced around. The street was empty, as silent as a dream.

“No,” she said, answering her own question. “They wouldn’t just leave you here all by yourself.”

The car seat doubled as an infant carrier. Out of curiosity, Nora raised the handle and lifted it off the ground. It wasn’t that heavy, no more unwieldy than a bag of groceries.

Portable, she thought, and the word made her smile.

THE SLEEPOVER had seemed like a cool idea in the abstract. But now that she was actually walking toward Ginkgo Street, Jill could feel some resistance building up inside of her. What were she and Ms. Maffey going to do all night? The idea of talking in whispers had seemed exciting at first, even vaguely illicit, like campers staying up past curfew. On reflection, though, it struck her as dishonest, like serving people ice cream on their first night at the fat farm.

Hey, have some more hot fudge! You’re gonna love it here at Camp Lose-a-Lot!

She wasn’t as happy about Aimee moving out as she might have expected, either. Not for her own sake — they’d been over each other for a while now — but for her father’s. He’d gotten pretty attached to Aimee in the past few months and would be sad to see her go. Jill had been jealous of their friendship, and even a bit worried about it, but she was also aware of how much pressure it took off her, and how much more her father would be needing from her in the coming days and weeks.

Not a great time to be leaving him alone, she thought, switching the sleeping bag from her left hand to her right as she made her way down Elm Street.

She stopped short, startled by what sounded like a gunshot coming from the direction of Bailey Elementary. A firecracker, she told herself, but a cold shudder ran through her body, accompanied by a harrowing vision of the dead man she’d found by the Dumpster on Valentine’s Day — the liquid halo encircling his head, his wide eyes staring in amazement, the endless minutes they’d spent together waiting for the police to arrive. She remembered talking to him in a soothing voice, as if he were still alive and just needed a little encouragement.

Only a firecracker …

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been turned away from the street, listening for a second explosion that never came. All she knew was that a car was veering toward her when she turned around, moving quietly and way too fast, as if it meant to run her down. It straightened out at the very last second, swooping in parallel to the curb, stopping neatly beside her, a white Prius facing in the wrong direction.

“Yo, Jill!” Scott Frost called from the driver’s seat as the tinted window descended. A Bob Marley song was playing on the car stereo, the one about the three little birds, and Scott was grinning his usual blissed-out grin. “Where you been hiding?”

“Nowhere,” she said, hoping she didn’t look as rattled as she felt.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the sleeping bag in her hand, the overnight bag slung across her chest. Adam Frost was leaning in from the passenger seat, his identical handsome face stacked a little above and behind his brother’s.

“You runnin’ away?” Scott asked.

“Yeah,” she told him. “I think I’m gonna join the circus.”

Scott considered this for a few seconds, then chuckled approvingly.

“Awesome,” he said. “You need a ride?”

THE GETAWAY car was right where it was supposed to be. There were two men up front, so Laurie opened the back door and climbed inside. Her ears were still ringing from the blast; it felt as though she were encased in the hum, as though a solid barrier of sound had intervened between her and the rest of the world.

It was better that way.

She was conscious of the men staring at her, and wondered if something was wrong. After a moment, the one in the passenger seat — he was a tanned, outdoorsy guy — opened the glove compartment and removed a Ziploc freezer bag. He peeled it open and held it out.

Right, she thought. The gun. They want their gun back.

She lifted it with two fingers, like a TV detective, and dropped it in, trying not to think about the difficulty she’d had removing it from Meg’s hand. The man gave a businesslike nod and sealed the bag.

Evidence, Laurie thought. Hide the evidence.

The driver seemed upset about something. He was a moonfaced youngish guy, slightly bug-eyed, and he kept tapping himself in the forehead, like he was reminding a stupid person to think. Laurie didn’t understand the meaning of the gesture until the guy in the passenger seat handed her a Kleenex.

Poor Meg, she thought, as she brought the tissue to her forehead. She felt something wet and sticky through the paper. Poor, brave Meg.

The guy in the passenger seat kept handing her tissues, and the driver kept touching various parts of his face to indicate where she needed to wipe. It would have been easier if she’d just looked in the mirror, but all three of them understood that that was a bad idea.

Finally, the driver turned around and started the car, heading down Lakewood toward Washington Boulevard. Laurie settled into her seat and closed her eyes.

Brave, brave Meg.

After a while she glanced out the window. They were leaving Mapleton now, crossing into Gifford, probably headed for the Parkway. Beyond that, she knew nothing about her destination and didn’t really care. Wherever it was, she would go there, and she would wait for the end, her own and everyone else’s.

She didn’t think it would be long now.

THE BMW had built-in satellite radio, which was pretty cool. Tom had tried listening a few times on the way down from Cambridge, but he had to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the baby or irritate Christine. Now he could just crank it up, switching from old-school hip-hop to Alternative Nation to Eighties nostalgia to Hair Metal whenever he felt the urge. He stayed away from the Jam Band channel, figuring there’d be more than enough of that when he got to the Poconos.

He was feeling a little less shaky now that he was on the highway. Escaping Mapleton had been the hard part. He kept heading out of town, then losing his nerve and circling back at the last minute to check on the baby. He did this three times before finally working up the courage to make the break, promising himself she’d be okay. He’d given her a bottle and changed her right before he left, so he figured she’d probably just sleep for a couple of hours, by which point somebody would get home to take care of her, or one of the neighbors would hear her crying. Maybe he could call his father from the next rest stop to say hi, pretend it was a coincidence, just to make sure everything was okay. If nobody answered, he could always call the cops from a pay phone, make an anonymous tip about a baby abandoned on Lovell Terrace. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

In his heart, he was pretty sure he’d made the right decision. He couldn’t stay in Mapleton, couldn’t go back to that house, that kind of life, at least not without Christine. But he couldn’t take the baby with him, either. He wasn’t her father, and he had no job, no money, no place to stay. She’d be better off with his dad and Jill, if they decided to keep her, or with a loving adoptive family that would give her the kind of secure, stable life Tom could never provide, at least not if he didn’t want to be completely miserable.

Maybe someday he and Christine could go back to Mapleton and reclaim her baby, re-create the family that Tom had dreamed about. It was a long shot, he knew that, and there was no point in getting ahead of himself. What he needed to do right now was find that solstice festival, join those Barefoot kids dancing under the stars. They were his people now, and that was where he belonged. Maybe Christine would be there, and maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, it sounded like a pretty good party.

JILL SAT on a raspberry-colored sling chair in the finished basement, watching the ball fly back and forth across the Ping-Pong table. For a pair of stoners, the Frost twins played with surprising skill and intensity, their bodies loose and fluid, their faces taut with concentration and controlled aggression. Neither one made a sound except for the occasional grunt, and a matter-of-fact announcement of the score before each serve. Otherwise it was just the hypnotic chatter of ball-against-table-against-paddle-against-table, over and over and over again, until one of the brothers seized his advantage, rearing back for a monster smash, which the other one more often than not managed to return.

There was a beautiful symmetry to their game, as if a single person were occupying both sides of the table, hitting the ball to himself in a kind of self-sustaining loop. Except that one of the players — Scott, the one on the right — kept searching out Jill’s eyes in the lull between volleys, carrying on a silent conversation, letting her know that she hadn’t been forgotten.

I’m glad you’re here.

I’m glad, too.

The score was tied eight to eight. Scott took a deep breath and hit a wicked spinning serve, slashing his paddle down on a sharp diagonal. Adam was caught off guard, leaning to the right before realizing his mistake, lurching all the way across the table to make an awkward backhand stab, hitting a feeble lob that barely cleared the net. And just like that they were back into the rhythm, a steady, patient pock-pocketa-pock, the white blur bouncing from one orange-padded paddle right back to the other.

Maybe another person would have found it tedious, but Jill had no complaints. The chair was comfortable, and there was nowhere else she’d rather be. She felt a little guilty, picturing Ms. Maffey standing by the entrance gate of the Ginkgo Street compound, wondering what had happened to her new recruit, but not guilty enough to do anything about it. She could apologize tomorrow, she thought, or maybe the day after.

I ran into some friends, she could write.

Or: There’s this cute boy, and I think he likes me.

Or even: I forgot what it feels like to be happy.

THE HOUSE was dark when Kevin pulled into the driveway. He turned off the engine and sat for a few seconds, wondering what he was even doing here when he could have been back at the Carpe Diem with his teammates, celebrating their hard-won victory. He’d left after a single beer, his festive mood dampened by the text he’d received from Jill: I’m at a friend’s. In case ur wondering, Aimee moved out. She said to tell u gdbye and thnx for everything.

In a way he was relieved — it was easier not to play the heavy, not to have to ask her to leave — but the news saddened him nonetheless. He was sorry it had happened like this, that he and Aimee hadn’t had the chance for one last morning talk out on the deck. He wanted to tell her how much he’d enjoyed her company, and to remind her not to sell herself short, not to settle for a guy who didn’t deserve her, or get stuck in a job that didn’t give her any room to grow. But he’d told her those things on numerous occasions, and just had to hope that she’d been listening, that his words would have sunk in by the time she really needed them.

For now, though, he’d just have to add her name to the list of people he cared about who’d moved on. It was getting to be a long list, and it contained some pretty important names. In time, he thought, Aimee would probably seem like a footnote, but just now her absence felt bigger than that, like maybe she deserved a whole page to herself.

He got out of the car and headed across the driveway to the bluestone path that had been Laurie’s first big project when they moved into this house. She’d spent weeks on it — choosing the stones, plotting the winding course, digging and leveling and fine-tuning — and the results had made her proud and excited.

Kevin paused at the edge of the lawn to admire the fireflies that were rising like sparks from the lush grass, lighting up the night in a series of random exclamations, turning the familiar landscape of Lovell Terrace into an exotic spectacle.

“Beautiful,” he said, realizing even as he spoke that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was standing at the bottom of the front steps, facing in his direction. She seemed to be holding something in her arms.

“Excuse me?” he said. “Who’s there?”

The woman began walking toward him at a slow, almost stately pace. She was blond and slender, and reminded him of someone he knew.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Can I help you?”

The woman didn’t reply, but by now she was close enough for him to recognize her as Nora. The baby in her arms was a complete stranger, the way they always are when we meet them for the first time, before we give them their names and welcome them into our lives.

“Look what I found,” she told him.