“What the fuck are you doing?”

I flinch. I’ve never heard him swear. I’ve barely ever heard him speak.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I back up, open my mouth.

“I was just—”

“What makes you think you can just come down here?”

I take another step back, stumble. “I’m so sorry—”

He’s advancing, the door behind him wide open. My vision rolls.

“I’m so sorry.” I breathe deep. “I was looking for something.”

“For what?”

Breathe again. “I was looking for you.”

He lifts his hands, drops them to his sides, the keys flailing in his fingers. “Here I am.” He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because—”

“You could have called me.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you thought you’d just come down here.”

I start to nod, then stop. This is almost the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

“Could you close the door?” I ask.

He stares, turns, pushes it. It shuts with a crack.

When he looks back at me, his features have softened. But his voice is still hard: “What is it you need?”

I feel dizzy. “Can I sit?”

He doesn’t move.

I drift to the sofa, sink into it. He stands statue-still for a moment, the keys jumbled in one palm; then he jams them in his pocket, tugs off his jacket, tosses it into the bedroom. I hear it land on the bed, slither onto the floor.

“This isn’t cool.”

I shake my head. “No, I know.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I went into your space. Uninvited.”

“No. I know.”

“You’d be fuck— You’d be pissed off.”

“Yes.”

“What if I’d been here with someone?”

“I knocked.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

I say nothing.

He watches me for another moment, then walks to the kitchen, kicking his boots off. Opens the refrigerator door, grabs a Rolling Rock from the shelf. Chinks it against the edge of the counter, and off pops the cap. It hits the floor, rolls beneath the radiator.

When I was younger, that would have impressed me.

He presses the bottle to his mouth, sips, slowly walks back to me. Slanting his long body against the drafting table, he sips again.

“Well?” he says. “I’m here.”

I nod, gazing up at him. “Have you met the woman across the park?”

His brow creases. “Who?”

“Jane Russell. Across the park. Number—”

“No.”

Flat as a horizon.

“But you did work there.”

“Yeah.”

“So—”

“I worked for Mr. Russell. I never met his wife. I didn’t even know he had a wife.”

“He has a son.”

“Single guys can have kids.” He swigs his beer. “Not that I thought about it that far. That was your question?”

I nod. I feel tiny. Study my hands.

“That’s what you came down here for?”

I nod again.

“Well, you’ve got your answer.”

I sit there.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?”

I look up at him. He’s not going to believe me.

“No reason,” I say. I push my fist against the armrest, try to stand.

He offers me his hand. I take it, his palm rough against my own, and he pulls me to my feet, smooth and swift. I watch the bands of muscle shift in his forearm.

“I’m really sorry for coming down here,” I tell him.

He nods.

“It won’t happen again.”

He nods.

I move toward the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back.

Three steps up, I remember something.

“Did you—didn’t you hear a scream the day you were working there?” I ask, turning, my shoulder pressed against the wall.

“You already asked me that. Remember? No scream? Springsteen.”

Did I? I feel as though I’m falling through my own mind.