At the apartment, Grelich took a shower, then found a set of Ritchie’s pajamas, and undressed and put them on. Without discussing it with Ritchie, he lay down on the bed, turned off the bedside lamp, tucked his arm under the pillow, and fell asleep.

Ritchie lay there, uncomfortable, wide-awake, watching lights and shadows cross the ceiling from cars in the street far below.

He tried to resign himself to a sleepless night. He watched the play of light and shadow across the ceiling—a weaving, hypnotic pattern. He felt miserable that he didn’t have a body of his own, so that he could get up, fix himself a sandwich, watch some television, or play a game on his computer. Instead, with Grelich in control of the body, he had to lie here maybe all night watching the lights on the ceiling. He couldn’t even get up and fix himself a drink. He’d have to talk to Grelich about that, if this situation went on much longer. Which he fervently hoped it would not... How could he sleep in an unfamiliar body, sharing his headspace with a man he scarcely knew? Given the circumstances, anyone would have insomnia. So thinking, he fell asleep.

He began to dream. In his dream he was walking down a long dark corridor toward a closed door with light coming from under it.

The door swung open. Ritchie walked in.

He was in a small, dark room. The ceiling slanted down. It seemed to be an attic room. In front of him was a plain wooden table. On it was a lighted candle in a pewter holder.

Behind the table, at the end of the room, he could see a tall window. It had no shade or curtain, and through the glass Ritchie could see the darkness of a city night, a darker shade than the darkness in the room.

Now he made out the middle distance. There were two men seated behind the table facing him. The one to his right, near the end of the table, wore dark, shapeless clothes, and had a yarmulke on his head. He was old, with a skinny, stubbly face. He had wire spectacles pushed up on his forehead. There was a parchment on the table in front of him, and he had a steel-nibbed pen in his right hand.

The other man was also old, but he was large and hearty looking. He wore dark clothes, a black beaver hat, and black horn-rimmed glasses. He had a sort of shawl thrown over his shoulders. He had a white beard that came down to his mid-chest.

He looked up when Ritchie entered the room. “So come in. It’s time, already. Did you bring the katubah?”

The skinny man said, “I have it, rabbi.” Turning to Ritchie, he said, “I am the scribe. It’s customary for the plaintiff to bring his own writing instruments and parchment. But in this modern age of ours, who’s got? So I make you a gift of my pen and parchment. Maybe you’ll be good enough to loan them to me so I can make out the document?”

“Yeah, sure, OK,” Ritchie said, not sure what was going on.

The rabbi said, “You’re not Jewish yourself, are you, Mr. Castleman?”

“No, I’m not,” Ritchie said. The rabbi didn’t give him any particular look, but Ritchie felt it was somehow not OK for him not to be Jewish. He restrained himself from apologizing.

“Let’s get on with the ceremony,” the rabbi said. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention that you wish to be separated from Moses Grelich, your mind mate. If this is so, please state it.”

“You got it,” Ritchie said. “I wish to be separated from Moses Grelich.”

The rabbi picked up a little memorandum pad, opened it and indicated that Ritchie should repeat after him. “Moses Grelich sold me his body, to be my exclusive possession. A medical ceremony was made, but I didn’t get the unencumbered body. When I got in, Grelich was still there. Despite this breach in the arrangement, I let him reside in the body with me while he made other arrangements. It is now time for him to vacate.”

After Ritchie had finished saying the words, he could hear the dry scratching of the scribe’s pen on the parchment.

“Therefore,” the rabbi said, “I, Rabbi Schmuel Shakovsky, empowered by the civil law of this state and by my congregation, do demand that you, Moses Grelich, tell us you are here.”

“I’m here, rabbi,” Grelich said. “But you know I’ve never been a believer. I don’t even believe in God.”

“You are not bound by God. You are bound by tradition.”

“I accept that, rabbi. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“On my command you will vacate your body, which, by your own assertion and willful act, is no longer yours.”

“I was in a weird mood when I made the agreement,” Grelich said. “Life had been a disappointment. But this half-life isn’t exactly paradise, either.”

Rabbi Shakovsky said, “I will now sign my name to this document. When the last stroke of my name has been written, you will vanish, Moses Grelich, and go wherever you are to go to next.”

The scribe handed the rabbi the pen and pushed the parchment toward him. The rabbi began, very slowly, to sign his name.

And Ritchie began to think. He was remembering that he hadn’t had a chance yet to question Grelich about Nietzsche or Camus. They both sounded important. There was Jakob, the waiter-translator-agent. Ritchie knew that on his own, without Grelich he’d never go back to Ratstein’s. He’d convince himself that the agent thing was nonsense, how could a broken-down old Rumanian waiter in a Jewish restaurant do anything for him in the American market? And he’d probably never see Solomon again. Or if he did, what could he say to him? He wanted to ask Solomon about his life, but Solomon wasn’t likely to talk about the good old days back in Addis Ababa and how black people became Jews when he knew Ritchie was responsible for his friend Grelich’s death.

Grelich, of course, had no one to blame but himself. He had set himself on the path of death all by himself. But was it the act of a friend to go along with it and help him out when the suicide didn’t go right in the first place? Was it even the act of a compassionate stranger to help Grelich complete what he had begun, probably not in his right mind?

Ritchie thought about his own small and non-interacting family. His mother was dead. His father had passed away a few years ago in an expensive rest home in Arizona. His younger sister was studying Library Sciences at Vassar. He never saw her, they didn’t correspond.

This new family, which had sprung up around Grelich and included him, was a strange and exciting experience. He’d have to give up all that once he got rid of Grelich.

It was suddenly in Ritchie’s mind to call off this ceremony, cancel the execution. There was enough room in his head for Grelich and himself!

The rabbi finished his signature and looked at him with his eyebrows raised.

“Nu?” the rabbi said.

The rabbi made a gesture. The flame of the candle flared, and died out.

Ritchie sat up in bed. Wow, what a dream. He looked around. He touched his face—the new familiar face of Moise Grelich.

Ritchie said, “Grelich, are you there?”

No answer.

“Grelich! Come out! Don’t sulk. Let’s talk.”

Still nothing from Grelich.

“Oh, Grelich,” Ritchie said, his heart breaking, “where are you? Tell me you’re still here!”

“So nu, where else would I be?” Grelich’s familiar voice said in his head.

“Christ, you had me scared. I had this dream. I dreamed a rabbi was divorcing us.”

“Are we husband and wife that a rabbi should divorce us?”

“No, but we’re pretty close. Roommates. Mindmates. In some ways, closer than husband and wife.”

“What a line of gab you’ve got.”

“It’s not gab! I want you here. I want you to call Solomon and Esther and have them meet us at Ratstein’s this evening.”

“Consider it done. You want to talk to that Rumanian agent again? Ritchie have you no common sense?”

“If I think he’s too much of a shyster,” Ritchie said, “I won’t ask him to represent me. But maybe he’s an honest schlemiel. We’ll see.”