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Claire inherited the house from her great-aunt. Her parents were both engineering professors at the university. She went away for college but came back for graduate school. Inside, Walker leans over Claire’s blue bicycle and flips the light switch on the wall.
    â€œOkay, I have to ask something else,” he says, dropping his satchel on the hardwood floor. “Do you have sex with Alan in your dreams?”
    She is ahead of him, halfway up the stairs.
    â€œHe’s my husband,” she says.
    Walker knows that Claire has been with other men. He thinks about this fact as little as possible, though he knows that before him there was another student in her department, and before that a Swedish guy named Jens who actually proposed, and before them a couple of college mistakes and a backseat high school fling. She never mentioned Alan in the list.
    â€œHow often?”
    â€œDo you really want to do this?”
    â€œJust tell me once, and then we won’t have to talk about it again.”
    She’s pasting their toothbrushes.
    â€œIf you must know, probably a few times a week. But it doesn’t often happen in the dream itself. It’s kind of offstage action, you know? For instance, the other night, we were on our way to a friend’s house for dinner, and the car ride took up the entire dream. But I knew what I’d done over the course of that day. I’d run some errands, picked up the dry cleaning. Baked strawberry brownies for dinner. The dessert was on my lap in the car.”
    â€œI can’t get over how detailed these dreams are,” he says. “I hardly remember anything from mine.”
    They both brush and spit into the sink.
    â€œDo you remember me in your dreams?” he asks. “Does it ever feel like cheating when you’re with him?”
    â€œDon’t get weird on me. They’re just dreams. I’m not cheating on anyone. You or him.”
    They turn off the lights and climb into bed. She tickles his back until he flips toward her. She’s naked. He wiggles out of his boxers quickly, shoves them to his feet.
    â€œYou don’t need to worry,” she says, and climbs on top of him. He doesn’t need to worry. He knows that. Sort of, he does. She’s moving faster now. He has his hands around her waist, the way she likes. He mutters her name, and, thankfully, she mutters his,
Walker
, and when it’s over she tugs at his chest hair playfully, smiling. Then she goes into the bathroom. He can hear her peeing, and then, seconds later, she’s back in his arms, skin hot, nuzzling under his chin until she’s asleep.
    He lets his breath fall in line with hers and keeps his armdraped over her side, inhaling the conditioner in her hair. He can feel her heartbeat, soft and far away. Is she with Alan now? He wonders what it must be like for her, this double life, if she closes her eyes in this bed and opens them in the one she shares with Alan. Maybe her life with him mirrors this one. At that very moment, it occurs to Walker, she could be waking up and brushing her teeth all over again, discussing the upcoming day with her husband. She could be straightening his tie, pointing out the spot on his chin he missed while shaving. She could have her warm palm flat on his chest as she kisses him goodbye, the same way she sends off Walker most mornings. The idea of her repeating these private routines with another man, even one who doesn’t technically exist, is almost more unsettling than the thought of her sleeping with him.
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    The phone book contains two listings for Alan Gass and one for A. Gass. Walker scribbles down all three on the back of a take-out menu. He carries the take-out menu in his satchel for two days before pulling over on the side of the road one morning on his way to work. The sky is cloudless, and across the street a long green field unfolds between two wooded lots. A row of