Theo tried to look sympathetic while at the same time wondering what form such a punishment would take. No allowance — or did Japanese parents not give their kids allowances? Being sent to her room? He decided not to ask.

"Lloyd's a good man," he said. The words came out without him thinking about them first; perhaps they sprang from some inner sense of fair play that he was glad to know he possessed.

Michiko considered this, too; she had a way of taking every comment and searching for the truth behind it.

"Oh, yes," she said. "He's a very good man. He worries because of that stupid vision that our marriage might not last forever — but there are so many things that, being with him, I know I will never have to worry about. He will never hit me, of that I'm sure. He'll never humiliate me or embarrass me. And he has a great mind for remembering details. I told him my nieces' names once, in passing, months ago. They came up again in conversation last week, and he knew their names instantly. So I can be sure he'll never forget our anniversary or my birthday. I've been involved with men before — both Japanese and foreign — but there's never been one about whom I've felt so sure, so confident, that he would always be kind and gentle."

Theo felt uncomfortable. He thought of himself as a good man, too, and certainly would never raise his hand to a woman. But, well, he did have his father's temper; in an argument, yes, if the truth be told, he might say things that were designed to wound. And, indeed, someone someday would hate him enough to want to kill him. Would Lloyd — Lloyd the good — ever arouse such feelings in another human being?

He shook his head slightly, dispelling those thoughts. "You chose well," he said.

Michiko dipped her head, accepting the compliment. And then she added, "So did Lloyd." Theo was surprised; it wasn't like Michiko to be immodest. But then her next words made plain what she'd meant. "He couldn't have picked a better person to be his best man."

I'm not so sure about that, thought Theo, but he didn't give the words voice.

He couldn't pursue Michiko, of course. She was Lloyd's fiancee.

And besides…

Besides, it wasn't her lovely, captivating Japanese eyes.

It wasn't even a jealousy or fascination born of her choice of Lloyd instead of him.

Down deep, he knew the real reason for his sudden interest in her. Of course he knew it. He figured if he embarked on some crazy new life, if he took some wild left turn, made a totally unpredictable move — such as running off and marrying his partner's fiancee — that somehow he'd be giving the finger to fate, changing his own future so radically that he'd never end up staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Michiko was devastatingly intelligent, and she was very beautiful. But he would not pursue her; it would be craziness to do so.

Theo was surprised when a chuckle emanated from his throat — but it was amusing, in a way. Maybe Lloyd was right — maybe the whole universe was a solid block, with time immutable. Oh, Theo had thought about doing something wild and crazy, but then, after what seemed careful consideration, weighing the options and reflecting on his own motives, he had ended up doing exactly what he would have been doing had the issue never been raised.

The movie of his life continued to unfold, frame after already exposed frame.

Michiko and Lloyd had planned not to move in together until after the wedding, but, except for the time she'd spent in Tokyo, Michiko had ended up staying at Lloyd's every night since Tamiko's death. Indeed, she'd only been home a couple of times, briefly, since the Flashforward, eight days ago. Everything she saw there reduced her to tears: Tamiko's tiny shoes on the mat by the door; her Barbie doll, perched on one of the living-room chairs (Tamiko always left Barbie sitting up comfortably); her finger paintings, held to the fridge door by magnets; even the spot on the wall where Tamiko had written her name in Magic Marker, and Michiko had never quite been able to get it cle an.

So, they stayed at Lloyd's place, avoiding the memories.

But, still, Michiko often drifted off, staring into space. Lloyd couldn't stand seeing her so sad, but knew that there was nothing he could do. She would grieve — well, probably forever.

And, of course, he wasn't an ignoramus: he had read plenty of articles on psychology and relationships, and he'd even seen his share of Oprah and Giselle programs. He knew he shouldn't have said it, but sometimes words just came out, tumbling forth, spoken without thought. All he'd been trying to do was fill the silence between himself and Michiko.

"You know," he said, "you're going to have another daughter. Your vision — "

But she silenced him with a look.

She didn't say a word, but he could read it in her eyes. You can't replace one child with another. Every child is special.

Lloyd knew that; even though he'd never — yet — been a parent, he knew it. Years ago, he'd seen an old Mickey Rooney film called The Human Comedy, but it wasn't funny at all, and, in the end, Lloyd thought it wasn't very human, either. Rooney played an American soldier in World War II who had gone overseas. He had no family of his own, but enjoyed vicarious contact with the people they were all fighting for back home through the letters his bunkmate received from his family. Rooney got to know them all — the man's brother, his mother, his sweetheart in the States — through the letters the man shared with Rooney. But then that man was killed in battle, and Rooney returned to the man's hometown, bringing back his personal effects. He ran into the man's younger brother outside the family homestead, and it was as if Rooney had known him all his life. The younger brother ended up going into the house, calling out, "Mom — the soldier's home!"

And then the credits rolled.

And the audience was supposed to believe that Rooney somehow would take the place of this woman's late son, shot dead in France.

It had been a cheat; even as a teenager — he'd been maybe sixteen when he saw the film on TV — he knew it was a cheat, knew that one person could never replace another.

And now, foolishly, for one brief moment, he'd implied that Michiko's future daughter might somehow take the place in her heart of poor dead Tamiko.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Michiko didn't smile, but she did nod, almost imperceptibly.

Lloyd did not know if it was the right time — his whole life, he'd been plagued by his inability to sense when the right moment was: the right moment to make his move with a girl in high school, the right moment to ask for a raise, the right moment to interrupt two other people at a party so that he could introduce himself, the right moment to excuse himself when other people obviously wanted to be alone. Some people had an innate sense of such things, but not Lloyd.

And yet—

And yet the matter did have to be resolved.

The world had dusted itself off; people were getting on with their lives. Yes, many were walking with crutches; yes, some insurance companies had already filed for bankruptcy; yes, there was a still-untold number of dead. But life had to go on, and people were going to work, going home, eating out, watching movies, and trying with varying degrees of success to push ahead.

"About the wedding… " he said, trailing off, letting the words float between them.

"Yes?"

Lloyd exhaled. "I don't know who that woman is — the woman in my vision. I have no idea who she is."

"And so you think she might be better than me, is that it?"

"No, no, no. Of course not. It's just… "

He fell silent. But Michiko knew him too well. "You're thinking that there are seven billion people on the planet, aren't you? And that it's blind luck that we met at all."