Blood? I say, but I’m too tired to pay attention.

Everywhere, she says, and it’s not the dogs. She’s checked the dogs, checked their paws, their mouths, their ears inside and out, checked penises, vaginas, everything. But there’s nothing wrong with the dogs, she says, nothing at all. They’re the healthiest dogs in the world, except they’d been walking through blood all day.

Look, she says, and holds up her phone. It’s a picture of a silver water bowl and there are dark smudges around its rim. That’s blood, she says, but doesn’t it look like it could be handprints? Like someone was holding it?

I guess, I say.

But it could be the dogs, too, she says, because that’s how a dog would hold the dish down. Like this. And she holds up her left hand and points at it with her right. Here and here, she says, that’s what would touch. So it could be them, but where did the blood come from?

I say maybe they ran through something outside. Something died bloody and they ran through it. A robin or something.

A robin? She says and looks at me funny.

Sure, I say, why not?

But they were inside, she says. All day. Look. This time she holds up a different picture. The living room, she says, and she’s not kidding, there is blood all over the carpet.

Jesus, I say, because it’s a lot of blood. Like three feet long, a couple feet wide. I don’t know how to measure blood. But it’s in the shape of something familiar, I can’t think what. At the edge of the frame are the two dogs, their heads down, their eyes up, watching Tish. They look greedy and a little crazed.

Now what’s in there? Dad says to me. This is earlier, before the movie. I have the game on the TV, but he’s not looking at it. He’s staring at the closet door and trying to drag the wheelchair forward with his stocking feet.

In the closet? I say. Not much.

I need to see what’s in there, he says, so I lean over and grab the chair with one hand.

Pick up your feet, I say, and when he does, I pull him closer. He waves one hand at the doors, and I get up and open the right one, then the left. See? Not much. I point at his white sneakers and his sweaters and a folding chair.

He wants to know what else, so I point to the shelf above the sweaters. Underwear, I say. A few t-shirts.

No, he says, that’s not good. There’s something else I need.

What do you need?

The funny thing, he says, is he knows it’s in there. But where is it? He shakes his head and stares hard into the closet. You see, don’t you? he says. I’ve got to get out of this situation I’m in.

There’s a good game on, I say, and point at the TV. Let’s watch a bit.

What else is down there? he asks. He points at the floor again where his sneakers are.

Sneakers, I say.

And up there?

Sweaters. Underwear.

No, he says, that won’t do. His jaw is set, but he rubs his eyes and that’s when he looks the oldest. He is old, but still. Finally he blows out air and rests his elbows on the chair arms as he stares into the closet.

Henrietta wheels up to the door and looks in at us. Is that your daddy? she says.

It is, I say.

He’s your daddy?

Yes.

What?

I tell Henrietta I’m closing the door and when I do I hear her ask where we went. It’s rude, she says, when people just go away. It’s plain rude. Plain rude! She yells once and then again, and I hear the charge nurse coming down the hall.

Dad’s looking at me when I turn around. He’s there for a moment, he’s in his eyes.

Purgatory, he says, and he’s right.

Tish wants to know if she should have called the police.

For what? I ask.

The blood, she says. She cleaned it all up, but you can still see the stain. She had to keep pushing the dogs back while she cleaned it. What if it was evidence?

Evidence of what?

A break-in, she says. What if someone broke in and cut themselves?

I don’t think that’s likely, and say so.

Why not?

The house lights lower and I feel like I could sleep for years. Was a window broken? I ask. Was the door forced?

No. Nothing like that.

Well, I say. Then probably not.

But where did the blood come from?

The dogs, I say. Dogs get bloody.

No, not the dogs. The dogs are fine, that’s for sure. That’s why she thinks there’s someone living in the house. It’s been cold, she says, maybe they were looking for a warm place.

A townhouse in the suburbs? I say. Someone decides to squat in a townhouse with two dogs?

But if he gave them food, she says. They’re friendly dogs.

He? or she. It could be a she.

I don’t know, I say.

I lock my bedroom door at night, she says, and I wear my shoes in the house now. But it’s been two days. If they were going to rape and kill me, it would have happened by now, right?

I look at the screen.

Last night, she says, the dogs were settled down and right before I fell asleep they went apeshit, barking and running up and down the stairs. They never do that. But if a person was in the attic, they might have heard something.

You think there’s a person in the attic?

No, she says, as the trailers play, but there could be.

She wakes me up when the movie ends. You were snoring, she says, and I punched you in the arm. Don’t you remember that?

I don’t remember anything, I say, but you didn’t have to punch me in the arm?

I did what I had to, she says.

Before I fell asleep I was thinking how to catch someone who’s hiding in a house. I decided it’s easier with two people, because one person can keep watching the hall or the stairs while the other person tapes fishing line across doorways. Clear a room, put up some fishing line, make sure no one’s sneaking from one room to the next. If the fishing line is down, you’ve got a problem.

I ask if she wants me to come over and check the attic.

No, she says, that’s okay.

Are you sure? It’s no trouble.

We’re not sleeping together anymore, she says. We’re not starting again tonight.

I wasn’t even thinking that, I say, and she stands up.

We walk out to the cars and she says, if you don’t hear from me in the next week, I’m probably dead. Use the spare key to get me out before the dogs eat me.

Do you want me to come over? I ask, and she laughs.

No, she says, that would be crazy. Right? It would mean I really believe there’s someone in the house.

Do you think there is? I ask.

No, she says. And then she says, Do you?

I don’t know what to say, I say.

Goodnight, she says, you look terrible.

In the mirror before bed I look at myself, and she’s right. I do look terrible. But at least no one is hiding in my apartment. Not even I can hide in it.

The next day I bring Dad’s lunch to his room and sit with him while he eats it. What day is it? he asks. He eats very slowly and he’s so thin I can see the bones of his skull. I think that should bother me, but it doesn’t.

It’s Sunday, I tell him.

What month?

Still October, I say, and he nods and eats. Today it’s stuffed shells and they smell good. He holds his fork in his fist like a child.

October, he says, and thinks about it. That’s good, he says. October’s good.

It is, I say. It’s got Halloween. The World series.

Hmm, he says and keeps eating. He offers me his peaches and the rest of his iced tea. Help yourself, he says. I don’t want you sitting there hungry.

I’m fine, I say, I ate before I came over. This is a lie. I eat one meal a day now, usually dinner, then wake hungry and dizzy at dawn. It’s a terrible system.

There’s a good game on soon, I say. I can’t tell if he’s heard me and I don’t bother repeating it.

Where’s your mother? he asks when he’s done, and I tell him she’ll be coming up later to see him. For now, it’s just me.

Good, he says. He gestures at the rolling table in front of him. Get this out of my way. I stack the dishes on the tray and roll the whole thing against the wall by the door.

Now, he says, I want to know what’s in there. He waves a hand at the closet. Your mother knows, but she won’t tell me. But I’ve got to get out of this situation, and there’s something in there. He looks sternly at me. I know you think I’m crazy, he says.

I shake my head. No, I say, but we looked in there yesterday.

Your mother gets impatient. She doesn’t understand, but she knows what’s in there. Maybe you get impatient, too.

I open up the closet doors and pull his chair close. Okay, I say. Here we are.

He stares at the floor. What’s that down there, he says. He’s pointing at his sneakers.

Just your sneakers, I say, and hand them to him.

He studies them for a moment and waves them away. No, he says, that’s not it. he points at the folding chair. What’s that?

It’s a folding chair, I say. Mom brought it up here. From the back porch, remember?

No, he says.

We go through each of the sweaters hanging on the clothes bar. I compliment something about each one, but I can see he’s slipping out of his eyes.

No, that won’t do, he says. He wants to know what’s on the shelf above them.

Underwear, I say, and hand him a pair, but he waves them off.

You know what I mean, don’t you? he says. You understand what’s going on here. His eyes are bright and hard and something else.

Yes, I say, you’re looking for something and you can’t find it, and as I say this my throat closes a little.

What’s up there? he asks, and points to the highest shelf. I reach up and run my hand across it and pull down a portable radio.

The radio, I say, but I don’t know why mom hid it way up here. I put it on the shelf with the underwear so it’s easier to reach.

What else? he says.

Nothing, I say, running my hand across it again. That’s everything.

No, he says, that can’t be everything. He brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes.

What about the gun? he says after a moment.

The gun?

Isn’t there a gun up there?

No, I say. No gun. Just the radio.

Shit, he says. I could really use a gun right now. He looks at me with the bright, hard eyes, and I look back for as long as I can.

Afterwards I sit in the parking lot for a bit. The sun is already coming down and the sky is clear. Maybe twenty years ago this would have been a good night.

Tish calls. I want you to come over, she says.

You do?

I want you to see something, she says. Can you come over?

Yeah, I say, I’m just leaving Dad.

Oh, she says. How is he?

I say something and hang up. There’s a crescent moon sitting over the pines at the far end of the lot.

Hey, I say, used to be a night like this, you were a harbinger of romance.

Sorry, the moon says. Everything changes.

It’s a joke, the moon says a little later.

Because I’m the moon, it says even later.

By the time I reach Tish’s place I’m certain I couldn’t get it up even if I wanted to.

Look, she says. We’re standing in her kitchen. The dogs sniff my boots and the cuffs of my jeans. I ask what I’m looking at.

The clock, she says. She points to the clock hanging over the doorway into the living room. It’s the size of a serving platter and it’s never worked, even with fresh batteries. The hands get to 9:25 and then they stop. Once, in the final days, I tried to fix it as a gesture of something good, but I have no idea how to fix time, so the hands stayed at 9:25.

What about it?

It’s working, she says. I look at my phone and then at the clock and she’s right. My phone says it’s 7:42 and the clock says it’s 7:42.

Holy shit, I say.

I didn’t do anything to it, she says, I didn’t even set the time, it was just working this morning and it’s been working ever since.

And that’s not all, she says. She leads me into the living room and points at the carpet. The stain is gone, she says. All that blood, and now there’s nothing. Remember how much blood there was? And I’d rented this thing, she says, and points to a carpet steamer standing in the corner. I got it this afternoon and when I came back, the stain was gone.

Weird, I say.

And the dogs don’t even care about it anymore, she says. they’re not sniffing it, not licking it. Are you? she asks the dogs, and they look up at her with devotion, tails thumping the floor.

I ask if she wants to watch a movie on TV.

She looks at me. No, she says, I don’t want to watch a movie. Isn’t this weird? The clock and the carpet?

It is, I say, it’s weird. I already said it was weird.

Well, what should I do?

What should you do about what?

The clock, she says. The carpet. I figured you’d know what to do.

There’s nothing to do, I say. The clock works. The carpet is clean. What more do you want?

But how? she says. How is the clock working? How is the carpet clean?

I don’t know, I say, and I guess I say it sharper than I mean it, because Tish steps back and looks at me.

You’re a mess, she says. Your eyes are really red.

I can check the attic, I say.

No, she says, I want you to go home and go to bed.

I guess I can try, I say, but hours later I’m still awake. The moon pokes in through the window and asks how it’s going.

To the dogs, I say. Full stop.

That’s terrible, the moon says. I guess I’ll shine through these trees.

Do what you need to do, I say.

After work the next day I go over to see Dad. Henrietta isn’t eating because a new wall has appeared. She can’t get around it. No, the nurses tell her, that wall’s always been there.

No, it hasn’t, she says, and looks at me as I enter. He knows, she says.

Dad shakes his head. All day, he says. All day she’s been complaining about that wall. He’s in his eyes and eats well and when he’s done we go back to his room and watch Wheel of Fortune and then Jeopardy.

I’m worried about some things, he says during Final Jeopardy.

What are you worried about?

That gun, he says. That gun Heinrich gave me. Or was it Heinrich? Someone gave me that gun, but it might have been in Cairo. If it was in Cairo, it wasn’t Heinrich.

Okay, I say.

He shuffles the wheelchair toward the closet. Now, he says, I want to know what’s in here.

Oh, Christ, I say.

Hey, the crucifix says. It hangs on the wall over the bed, and it rattles a little bit so I have to turn and look at it.

Nice of you to show up, I say. We could use a little help here if you hadn’t noticed.

Sorry, the crucifix says, it’s just me. The moon.

Jesus, I say, what are you doing in there?

I don’t know, the moon says. One minute I was shining through some trees, next thing I’m hanging here.

Well, I say. I ask what it’s like.

It’s excruciating, the moon says.

You’re telling me, I say.

Dad has a grip on one door handle, but the wheelchair blocks him from opening it. I pull him back and then open the doors, first the left, then the right.

We go through it all once more: sneakers, folding chair, sweaters, underwear, radio.

No, he says, that won’t do. He wants to know what’s on the highest shelf. Nothing, I say, but I reach up there anyway and my hand closes on a gun. I’ve never held a gun before, but I know it’s a gun. The metal is cold and smooth and the grip is cross-hatched. It fits my hand perfectly.

Nothing, I say again and drop my hand. That’s all there are to it. This is something Dad used to say when I was a kid.

No, he says, no. I’m sorry, he says, but you’ll have to do better.

I make a show of taking out the folding chair. I open it up and stand on it so my head is even with the high shelf. The gun is a pistol and it’s shiny even in the room’s dim light. In the far corner is a crumpled piece of paper.

Hey, I say, you’re right, there is something up here. I hand him the piece of paper and the folding chair trembles.

Dad works the paper open slowly. I have the folding chair back in the closet and the doors closed by the time he’s done.

What is it? I say.

His eyes are hard and he hands me the paper. I can’t read it, he says.

It’s nothing, just a nurse’s note about whoever was in the room before him. John should always wear a hat if he goes outside, it says. I tell Dad this.

John, he says. Let me see that. I hand him the paper and he studies it like he can read again. Then he sits back a bit. That’s good, he says. This helps.

Great, I say. He nods. The hat, he says. Now we’re getting somewhere. Great, I say again.

When he’s in the bathroom I take the gun from the closet and slide it into my bag.

What kind of answer is this? I ask the crucifix.

What? Dad says.

Nothing, I say. Let me know when you need help.

Tish calls me the next morning. I’m still in bed. My stomach roars, but I can’t get up. Out in the kitchen the gun is in the oven. Remember that, I’m telling myself when the phone rings. Look before you cook.

You won’t believe this, Tish says. She let the dogs out and she didn’t notice right away, but then she did—all the leaves in the backyard were gone. There’d been hundreds, and now there was not a single leaf in the grass, not even up against the fence.

The grass is leaves, I say.

Someone must have raked them, she says, and carried them out of there. And not only that, she says, but the big crack in the concrete patio is gone.

Gone?

Gone, she says. Like it was never there, like it healed. I’ll send you a picture.

A wild rattling crash comes from out in the apartment, and I think maybe a ceiling fan has come down.

It’s weird, Tish is saying, isn’t it? What’s going on?

I don’t know, I say. The wind, maybe.

What?

Nothing, I say. Can I call you back?

She wants to know if I’m doing okay. I could tell her about the gun, but I don’t.

Let’s have dinner on Friday, she says. I’m worried about you.

Nothing to worry about, I say, but I agree to dinner. Dinner sounds good. There’s another crash out in the apartment. It’s coming from the kitchen.

Away I go, I say and hang up.

I crack open the oven door and sure enough, the gun has somehow banged itself down to the lowest rack and gotten stuck between the bars.

Hey, I say. Get it together or I’ll turn this thing on.

I don’t see Dad again until Wednesday. By this point Tish has sent me two pictures and a video. The pictures are of her car, which is ten years old but suddenly looks brand new. The chipped paint on the roof is now smooth and bright and there are two perfect racing stripes on the hood. All this on Monday morning when she came out of the house.

The really weird thing, she tells me on the phone, is she always wanted a couple racing stripes on the hood.

She did?

Absolutely, she says. Racing stripes are hot.

I never knew this, which bothers me. So I say it was probably her dad or her sister.

No, she says, she already called them and it wasn’t. They thought she was pranking them.

Maybe it was me, I say.

Was it? she asks.

No.

Can you believe this? she says. She’s excited.

Not at all, I say.

On Tuesday it’s the doorbell. Tish sends me a video. She’s pointing the camera at the little speaker high up on the entry wall. Listen, I hear her say, I’m going to press the bell. The camera wobbles for a moment, then steadies. Music comes out of the speaker, but it’s not the regular chime anymore. It sounds like there’s a whole orchestra in there trying to make a point.

When it’s over, I hear Tish say she thinks it’s Mozart. Can you believe this? she says.

Henrietta is sitting in the hallway in her wheelchair. She wants to know how I got in.

Doors, I say, and I count them in my head. Three of them.

She looks at me, suspicious. How’d you get around the wall?

I don’t know, I say. But here I am.

She narrows her eyes and stares at me. I don’t like you, she says. You know something. You know something about that wall.

The charge nurse comes toward us. Let him be, she says. He’s just here to see his daddy.

He knows something about that wall, Henrietta says. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it when things show up for no good reason.

There aren’t any new walls, the charge nurse says to Henrietta. We’ve been over this.

Like hell there aren’t, Henrietta says. The charge nurse sighs and asks if Henrietta wants some chocolate.

What do you think? Henrietta says, and the charge nurse takes the wheelchair’s handles and turns Henrietta around.

Listen, the nurse says to me, I just gave him some sedative. He’s been having a rough afternoon.

Okay, I say. Thanks.

I’m watching you, Henrietta calls back to me.

In his room Dad’s got a napkin in his hands and he’s twisting and untwisting it like it’s rope. He’s not in his eyes and I don’t think he knows me, but he does.

Listen, he says, I’ve got to get out of this situation I’m in. I’ve said this before. I’ve got to get out of this mess.

I don’t know what to say, so I sit down by the window.

It’s complicated, he says. I know you know that. He points two fingers at the closet. I’ve got to get whatever’s in there. Your mother knows what’s in there, but she pretends she doesn’t. He looks at me with the hard, bright eyes. The top shelf, he says. Get up there and look at the top shelf.

I rub my eyes. We’ve looked up there, I say. It’s just the same old stuff.

He stares at me.

It’s just shoes and clothes, I say. A radio.

The folding chair, I say a few moments later. Underwear.

Goddammit, I say finally, and the crucifix rattles a little on the wall.

Moon? I ask.

That top shelf, Dad says.

The folding chair trembles again when I stand on it, and when my head is level with the high shelf, I see the gun is back. The barrel points at me like a smile.

I turn to the crucifix. Hey, I say. You think this is all a joke?

Dad wants to know what’s up there. I pretend to reach deep into the shelf and I undo my watch.

You were right again, I tell him. This was up there. I lean down and hand him the watch.

A watch, he says.

Maybe it was John’s, I say.

Who?

Does it help? I ask.

He studies the watch for a full minute. Yes, he says at last. I think so. What time is it?

I take out my phone and tell him. He studies the watch some more. Is that the time on here? He hands it back to me and I say it is.

And what month is it?

Still October, I say. Can I come down now?

He’s suddenly back in his eyes. I guess I ought to use the bathroom, he says.

Over the sound of Jeopardy I put the gun in my bag again. I’m going to throw you off a cliff, I say to it. Yeah? A cliff.

Okay, Dad calls. I think that’s all there are to it.

The bag stays in the suitcase in the oven until Friday night. At Tish’s I lean it against the kitchen wall and when the dogs go to sniff it, they spring back in surprise and don’t go near it again.

Tish has a look like something’s up, but she won’t tell me what’s going on.

I hate surprises, I say.

No kidding, she says, but she still won’t talk.

It’s chicken, I say to the dogs, once we’re finally in front of the TV with our food. They watch me with big, unblinking eyes.

You won’t believe this, Tish says.

But it’s not your chicken, I tell them. It’s mine.

Hey, she says, are you listening?

I am, I say. I won’t believe it.

Watch, she says, then starts flipping through the channels. The images zip by so fast I start to feel a little dizzy. Everything’s normal, she says. Right?

Sure, I say.

Okay, she says, now this. She flips the channel again. HBO, she says. Right? I don’t get HBO, but suddenly I do. Showtime, she says a moment later. Starz. Cinemax. She runs through a bunch more. Crazy, right? Where’d it all come from?

I have no answer. The chicken doesn’t taste like anything anymore.

And then this. I can feel her looking at me. She flips the channel again. Ready? This one shows everything that’s in the theaters right now. And she’s right. On the screen, an enormous whale is breaking a ship in half. The light at sea is yellow and beautiful and men scream in terror.

See? she says. That came out today.

The fuck, I say.

See? she says again. I told you you wouldn’t believe it. What’s going on?

I put my fork down.

Do I call someone? she asks. Will I get in trouble for this?

I wouldn’t even know what to say, she says a minute later. Who would believe it?

Still later, she says, aren’t you hungry?

The whale movie keeps going. The ship’s at the bottom of the ocean and a couple sailors are on a raft trying not to eat each other, but the whale won’t leave them alone, won’t let them sleep. Even at night it breaches nearby and floods them with cold water.

After a while Tish sits back on the couch and says she’s sleepy and might just close her eyes for a minute.

Under the stars one of the men gets poetic, says dying shouldn’t be so hard. He’s missing an eye, and a scene ago he tried to drown himself. He’s mad because the other guy saved him.

When Tish is asleep, I get the gun out of my bag. The dogs follow me into the kitchen, but when they see the gun, they turn back to the living room, and I think, those are some smart dogs.

The attic is upstairs in the guest room. There’s a cord in the ceiling that lowers the steps, and once I find it in the light of my phone, they unfold swiftly and silently. Down below I can hear the TV going, dramatic music that’s probably good for whales but not for anyone else. Up in the attic it’s dark. Really dark. So dark maybe I should just call it a night, but I don’t. I find the safety and click it off.

At the top of the steps I just wait. I can’t see a thing and it’s so quiet I can hear the rafters breathing.

Listen, I say at last. I know you’re up here. I have a gun. You’re fixing all the wrong things.

Long silence.

I know you’re up here, I say again, and this time there’s a little scuffle to my right. My heart is suddenly in my ears, but with my free hand I take out my phone and throw its light around. There are boxes stacked in the far corner and I point the gun at them.

It’s not a game, I say. One of the boxes moves the slightest bit. I say, Jesus Christ, and drop the phone but hang onto the gun. The light bounces around crazily and then goes out.

Hey, the moon says, and I almost fall down the steps.

I can’t really get in here, the moon says. Do you see anything? All I have is this little vent.

Jesus Christ, I say again.

It’s really not a very big vent at all.

Someone’s up here, I say. There’s suddenly sweat on my back.

No, there isn’t, the moon says.

I burp chicken and think I might be sick.

There is, I say.

Not anymore, the moon says.

Really? I say.

You bet. It’s just us now.

I have to sit down, but the steps are too narrow, so I stretch out on a rafter. It’s so dark I feel dizzy.

I close my eyes. The wood is cold against my cheek and it smells like winter.

Do you know what’s going on? I ask.

Hardly ever, the moon says.

I don’t like it, I say.

I don’t like any of it, I say a little later.

This situation, I say even later. This situation we’re in.

The moon thinks he hears a whale far away, and says so.