“I’m sorry, but she’s not allowed visitors right now.”

McCabe took out his police badge and held it up for the woman to see. When he spoke, his voice was low and kind but there was no mistaking the authority it carried. “Just tell us the room number. And the name of her doctor.”

The woman twitched uncomfortably in her chair. But there wasn’t much she could do. “Ten sixty-three. Dr. Zabalino.”

“Zabalino. That’s great. Thanks very much,” He took my arm and neither of us spoke until we’d reached the elevator across the hall. He pressed the orange button and stared at his feet.

“What if she really is too sick for visitors?”

The doors slid opened. The car was empty. We stepped in and they shut quickly. I pressed three.

“Miranda, how long have you known Frances?” He stood too close to me but I didn’t mind because it wasn’t male-female or sexy in any way. McCabe was in close on all accounts; he touched, he poked, he patted people on the shoulder. Most of the time I don’t think he even knew he did it. He also spoke in a tone of voice that said he knew you intimately; you could tell him anything and it would be okay. He made contact in all ways, and even if you had done something wrong his touch or voice held you in place. It was nice.

“Not that long. A few months. Why?”

“I’ve known her twenty-five years. She’s the world’s most independent person. But when she does ask for something, do it and don’t let anything stop you. She calls up and says she wants to see us here? We run, Miranda.”

Several doors were open as we walked down the hall. In one room a very old man lay in bed with his eyes closed. Seated next to him on a wooden chair was a small girl. She wore a large red watch on her wrist and stared at it, eyebrows raised. She spoke to the old man and I realized she was counting seconds for him. Although his eyes remained closed, he was smiling.

Two doors down I was startled to see a small black dog sitting alone in the middle of a perfectly made bed. There appeared to be no one else in the room. I couldn’t resist touching McCabe’s sleeve and pointing. When he saw it he did a double take and stopped.

“What the hell?”

The dog saw us and yawned. McCabe stepped to the door and peered at the small shield giving the patient’s name. “Frederick Duffek. Is a Duffek a breed of dog?” He took a step to the right so he stood in the center of the doorway. “Frederick? Where’s your master?”

“Yes?” A gigantic middle-aged man appeared from behind the door a foot from McCabe. His bald head shone like it was oiled and he wore pajamas the color of old ivory. McCabe wasn’t fazed. “Hey! I saw your dog there on the bed and was wondering—”

The man put a hand on McCabe’s chest, pushed him back out into the hall, and shut the door in his face. Frannie looked at me, delighted. “What a fucking nutty place, huh? That guy looked like Divine. Maybe the dog’s part of his therapy.”

“Maybe we should find ten sixty-three.”

But there was one more snapshot before we reached Frances’s room, and that one stayed in my mind. All the other doors on the hall were closed except the one next to 1063. It was wide open.

Inside was a young woman. On first sight, her back was to us. She wore a baggy black sweat suit and her legs were spread wide. She looked like an inverted Y. On the floor in front of her was a very large blue-gray stone shaped like a rough egg. It would have been a strange sight anywhere. In that quiet, forbidding place, it was outrageous.

She panted hard three times—hoosh hoosh hoosh—bent down, and like a seasoned weightlifter hoisted the stone up to her stomach. Then she blew out the same three short pants and lowered it to the floor. Pause, then three pants and up again. McCabe hissed, “Jesus!”

The stone was almost to the floor. Letting it thud down, she spun around. She was remarkably beautiful.

“Dr. Zabalino?” She had a marvelous smile. When she saw us, it fell noticeably. “Oh, hello. I thought you were my doctor.”

McCabe stepped into the room and looked quickly behind the door to check if anyone else was there. “Why are you lifting a rock? In your hospital room? Is that good for you?”

“It’s part of my meditation.”

“Meditation? Who’s your guru, Arnold Schwarzenegger? Ooh!” He smiled lewdly and reached into a pocket. “My telephone’s ringing. I love vibrating phones. I could let it ring all day.” He took out a small gray one. It sprang open in his hand. “Hello? Well, hi, Frances. Where are we? Not far. We could be there in, oh, eight seconds. Yeah, we’re here. Next door to you, with the woman who picks up the rock? Uh-huh. No problem.” He closed the phone and looked at me. “Frances says she’d like to talk to you first. I’ll wait outside.”

The woman put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Excuse me, but who are you two?”

Walking toward her, McCabe spoke quickly, as if he didn’t want her to get a word in edgewise. “We’re visiting your next door neighbor, Frances Hatch. Would you mind if I tried that before we go?” Bending down, he put his arms around the stone and made to jerk it up. His eyes widened and he spluttered. “How heavy is this thing?”

“Seventy kilos.”

“A hundred and fifty pounds! You can lift it up and down like that? How do you do it?”

I caught his eye and gestured I was going. The woman asked me to close the door. Outside, I walked the few steps to Frances’s room. As I reached for the knob, someone nearby went, “Psst!” and I looked up.

Hugh and Charlotte’s little boy stood in a doorway across the hall. He wore the same striped swimsuit he’d had on when I saw him on television in the kitchen. His feet were bare. Worse, there was a small puddle of glistening water beneath each foot. As if he had just stepped dripping wet out of a swimming pool.

Instinctively, I looked at his hands to see if he held another rock.

“I’m not gonna go away.” His voice was a child’s, and held the terrible note of unending threat only a child’s voice can. Do you remember that? Do you remember how frightening and all-encompassing it was to be threatened by a classmate you hated because you feared them all the way into the marrow of your bones? You knew you could never defeat them, never, because they were stronger or prettier (or stronger and prettier), or smarter or bigger or horribly, monstrously mean. And because you were young and knew nothing of life, you knew this person your own age—seven, eight, nine—would always be nearby and a permanent menace until the day you died.

That is what I felt and the feeling was not small. A paralyzing dread came over me because this boy did not exist but was there nevertheless, ten feet away, looking at me with loathing in his eyes.

He began to sing. “In Dublin’s fair city / Where the girls are so pretty—” His voice was sweet, mischievous.

I took a step toward him. “I don’t know what you want from me! What can I do? What do you want me to do? I don’t understand.” Unintentionally I reached out toward him. Arm extended, palm up, a beggar’s hand: Please help.

His face was blank. He gave me a long look, then stepped out of the doorway and walked away. His feet left wet prints on the linoleum all the way down the hall. He began to sing again. “—I first laid eyes on Sweet Molly Maione.”

“Please stop.”

Nothing.

“Tell me what I can do!”

He never turned. Reaching the door, he pushed it open and was gone.

When I entered the room, an imposing woman stood above Frances, taking her pulse. She had a big sweep of lustrous black hair spun up and around her head like a cone of soft ice cream. Thick eyebrows, large eyes, small features, white skin. She wore a black Chanel suit that contrasted vividly with numbers of gold rings on her fingers and bracelets on her wrists. If I saw her on the street I’d have thought, Money, showoff, businesswoman, or wife with an attitude. Attractive without being special, her black eyes announced she knew exactly what she was doing. When she spoke the timbre and authority of her voice reinforced that.