They found a Gas ‘N Stuff somewhere near Bridgeville but couldn’t get the pump to accept Duran’s MasterCard. Duran turned to Adrienne for help, which made her blanch because “My purse was in the house! I don’t have a dime!”

He called the 800 number on the back of his credit card, punched in the account number, and hit the voice-mail option that was supposed to inform him of the card’s “available credit.” Instead, a recorded voice told him that his account had been “frozen,” and that he should stay on the line for a “customer service” representative. He did, and was told that his card had been reported stolen. “We’ll have a new one to you in… maybe two or three working days. It’s in the pipeline.”

Duran couldn’t believe it. “Look,” he said, “I have the card, right here. It’s in my hand. I didn’t report it stolen.”

“Someone did.”

“Ask me my mother’s maiden name.”

“That’s not something—”

“You’ve got validating questions. Use them!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Duran, but once a card is reported stolen, a new one has to be issued.”

“Look. I’ve got like—” He glanced in his wallet. “Two bucks on me. I’m outta town. I’m outta gas. Isn’t there any way—”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry—there’s nothing we can do. You’ll just have to wait for the new one.”

Returning to the car, Duran pumped $2.28 worth of gas, and explained to Adrienne what had happened. “The bank fucked up,” he told her.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like it. That’s what they do when someone reports a stolen card.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I wonder who did it…”

The way she said it, it almost sounded as if she thought he’d done it himself. And maybe he had.

They got as far as the Beltway before the dashboard beeped a second time, and the fuel light snapped on. Adrienne directed Duran along a complex route that took them past the Capitol, and up 16th St. They were less than a mile from her apartment when the car began to lurch, and the engine died. With the help of a couple of Latinos who were waiting for a bus, they pushed the Dodge into a loading zone on the edge of Meridian Hill Park.

“What happened to your car, man? You smash it up and then drive through a fire?”

The trunk, dented from the Comfort Inn parking lot collision, was something Adrienne was already obsessing about. She’d heard it could be a real hassle when you dented a rental car. She didn’t like to lie, but she’d told Duran that under no circumstances should he admit that he was driving. That could really tangle things up.

Now she followed Duran around to the passenger side, where his new friends were shaking their heads over the paint job. Which was… puckered.

“Son of a bitch!” Duran muttered.

“You need some bodywork, my friend.” The Latino began to fish through his pockets. “Let me give you my card—I give you a good price.”

“It’s a rental,” Adrienne moaned.

“For real?” the first guy said, shaking his head. “Oh, man. They going to bleed you.” Both men ran their fingers over the car door, and shook their heads sadly.

Adrienne was writing out a note, which she stuck under the windshield wiper. Stood back. Repositioned it. Said: “They’ll give me a ticket anyway.”

The Latinos chuckled. “They gonna tow your ass.”

Duran had to work to keep up with Adrienne’s quick march to her apartment. Fearful of a ticket or, worse, a tow truck, she was almost jogging. In the end, they covered the mile in about twelve minutes.

Wearing a bibbed apron and a faint look of alarm, Mrs. Spears let them in. “Adrienne! Where have you been?” she asked.

“I lost my key. Can I get in through the laundry room?”

“Of course,” the landlady replied, with a hopeful look at Duran.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Jeff—this is Mrs. Spears.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Duran said.

“We’re in a hurry” Adrienne confided, moving down the hall to a door that gave way to a flight of stairs leading down to the basement. With Adrienne in the lead, the two of them passed through a small storage room on their way to her apartment. Opening the door, she stopped so abruptly that Duran almost walked into her. “Jesus!”

She’d forgotten how bad it was. The room was a sea of detritus, with Adrienne’s belongings scattered everywhere: books, videos, couch cushions, clothing and CDs, shoes, blankets, towels, vases. And on top of it all, like whitecaps, were hundreds of pieces of paper.

Muttering to herself, she picked her way past some broken dishware, pots and pans, moving toward a door on the other side of the room. It was stuck, at first, but she put her shoulder into it and squeezed through while Duran remained where he was, gazing around the room, curious about Adrienne’s world.

Which, despite the mess, had so much more texture than his own. There were romantic posters of long ago places and faraway things (Biarritz and the Orient Express), and a series of Tin Tin covers, matted and framed. Stooping, he picked up a book, and was surprised by its subject: Lonely Planet’s guide to Sri Lanka. He picked up another: Trekking in Turkey. And a third: Mauritius, Reunion, and the Seychelles.

“You travel a lot?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, emerging from the other room. “I never go anywhere.”

Duran pondered that as she stutter stepped through the debris of her living room. “Why not?” he asked.

“No money.” She paused. “Do you see a music box?”

He glanced around, and shook his head.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?” Duran replied.

“Do you travel a lot? Have you been a lot of places?”

He thought about it. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Where?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She crossed the room to a small desk and, reaching beneath it, extracted an inlaid wooden box that had fallen to the floor. “Plaisir d’Amour” began to play as she opened its cover and removed two credit cards and a passport. “Voila!”

“Are we going somewhere?” he asked.

“It’s the only ID I’ve got,” she told him. “Everything else went up in smoke.”

She surveyed the mess. She’d thought they might spend a couple of hours cleaning it up, but it was hopeless. Overwhelming. It was going to take a week. But she’d have plenty of time to get into it when all this was over, she reminded herself, because she no longer had a job. She unearthed a few wearable items from the heaps, and snagged her Mason Pearson brush from the bathroom.

She led Duran out the back door, avoiding Mrs. Spears. Together, they walked through the alley to Mount Pleasant Avenue, where they bought a gallon of gas at Motores Sabrosa—only to find a pink ticket waiting for them when they got back to the Dodge.

“Another hundred bucks,” Adrienne wailed. “That’s horrible!” She stamped her foot, which made Duran laugh—which made her even madder. “What does it mean,” she demanded as she got into the car, “when the only thing this fucking city’s good at is parking enforcement?”

Duran shook his head. “It’s probably the end of civilization as we know it.”

The operation was scheduled for eight A.M. the following morning, so Duran spent the night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, leaving Adrienne to cool her heels in the Mayflower Hotel.

Arriving on the neurosurgery ward, Duran was turned over to an admissions nurse, who fitted him out with hospital pajamas and a robe. A plastic band was affixed to his wrist, and he was taken to a semiprivate room at the end of the corridor. Nurses bustled in and out, taking his vital signs on what seemed like an hourly basis, while his roommate (a much-intubated man) lay comatose and staring.

In the evening, Shaw stopped by with the neurosurgeon, Nick Allalin, a rabbity man with a pinkish nose, large teeth, and a high-pitched voice.