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“Then I shall like the lawyer.”

That got a laugh, a brief startled one, and his shoulders came down half an inch. I was proud of it. I was becoming, God help me, a competent comforter.

For two days the household closed round us like a warm hand. Jennifer showed me her ukulele. Tyler, who came to supper, wept when he shook my hand and confessed that he had thought I was “the scary Russian.” Jason came by with a pizza and stood in the kitchen doorway staring at me with an expression of enormous reverent horror, until Lex cracked and said, “Jason, what, “ and Jason said, “I just want to say, Harold. I knew it.”

“You did not.”

“I had a theory!”

“You had a ghost story. “

“It was a theory with a ghost in it.”

I put my hand on the back of the chair to keep from laughing.

But it was late on the second night, in the guest room, in the great white bed, that I found I could not sleep.

I lay on my back and looked at the ceiling. The window was open a hand’s width. The air smelled of frost and old leaves, and somewhere in the house a clock struck two. I thought of the wire, and the silver, and the doctor’s tears. I thought of a warehouse, and a boy’s voice, calling I love you. I thought of the long dark years and the small white room in Halden with the crumbs of honey bread on the plate.

I am afraid, I thought. It was not a new thought. I had thought it every night for a month.

I am afraid he will change his mind.

The door opened.

I did not move. I heard him come in, barefoot, in the dark, closing the latch behind him with tiny care. I heard him cross the carpet. I heard the bed dip. A warm body slid in beside me, all knees and elbows, and a nose pressed into the side of my neck.

“Do not tell my mother,” said Lex.

“I would not dream of it.”

“She’ll get the spoon.”

“I believe you.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” His voice was muffled. “It’s too quiet. It’s been so long since I was in this house, and I keep hearing things. Pipes. Wind. It’s stupid.”

“It is not stupid.”

“I just wanted to lie next to you.”

“Then lie.”

He lay down, and I put my arm round him, and we stayed like that until the clock struck three and then four. I felt his breathing deepen and his muscles unknot, and I thought: I could hold him until the world ends.

Toward morning he said, very softly, into the dark:

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“They’re all going out. Mom’s taking Jenny and Dad to the club for brunch. Dad said he’d go. He’s not coming back till noon.” He lifted his head. His eyes were huge and shining in the gray. “It’ll be light. It’ll be daylight. I’m gonna make coffee.”

I could not speak.

“I’m not saying it’s anything,” he said, in a rush. “I’m just saying. I’ll be up.”

“I will be here.”