Something wakes me, and I sit up, blinking at my dark living room. The television is still on, and in the corner, I see the time: nine o’clock. I try to remember when I fell asleep. What woke me up?
Then I hear a knock. Someone is at my door.
I stand and stare at the door as if it might speak to me. Is it him? Is it?
“Ryde?”
I fly to the door and pull it open.
“Now, listen to me—listen—you have to listen.” Alistair walks into my apartment, not even looking at me. He’s in a T-shirt, and his hair is wild, and he’s pacing the room, speaking very fast. “I wrote today, I wrote everything, like I always do, and I wrote and wrote, about Eberhart leaving the presbytery to go back to Germany to be with her brother, and I wrote about the broken window in the school where they asked me to come a
