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credit card from all of your customers?” I asked.
    “It is policy. You may pay in cash if you like.” It seemed important to him that I know that. “But we require a credit card also.”
    “In case there is damage to the room or I try to skip out on the bill,” I said.
    “It is so.”
    I offered my hand. “I’m McKenzie.”
    The manager shook it without hesitation. “Daniel Khawaja.”
    “Khawaja. It that Pakistani?”
    “It is a Kashmiri name. Kashmir is claimed by Pakistan, India, and China, so the choice is yours. I prefer to believe it is a Canadian name.”
    “Have you been here long?”
    “Since I was a boy. My parents emigrated just in time to vote for the city’s new name following amalgamation. They preferred Lakehead. Thunder Bay won by five hundred votes.”
    “This was in the sixties?”
    “Nineteen sixty-nine.”
    Daniel processed my card. While he did, I turned to the rack. There were brochures for an amethyst mine, the longest suspension bridge in Canada, Fort William Historical Park, the Sleeping Giant, Kakabeka Falls, and a dozen additional tourist attractions. I seized the one promoting the Thunder Bay Blues Festival.
    “This looks like fun,” I said.
    “It is the biggest event of the year.”
    “Really?”
    “All the motels will be filled. If you want a room, you must register in advance.”
    “How far in advance?”
    Daniel thought about it for a moment, then said, “At least a month and a half. Sometimes sooner.”
    “Is that right?”
    “It is so.”
    Daniel gave me a credit card receipt to sign and slid a key across the counter, not an electronic card like most motels and hotels use, but an actual key attached to a plastic tag with the number 15 embossed on it. I left it where it was.
    “I’d prefer room thirty-four if possible.”
    I saw it—the slight flinch, the whites of Daniel’s eyes widening. The signs were just barely detectable, and probably I would have missed them if I hadn’t been watching intently.
    “Room thirty-four?” he asked. His voice was calm and unaffected. He did not look away.
    “It’s my lucky number.”
    “Lucky number?”
    “It’s the number Kirby Puckett wore.”
    “I do not know this Kirby Puckett.”
    “He played center field for the Minnesota Twins when they won the World Series in ’87 and ’91.”
    Daniel shook his head.
    “Baseball,” I said.
    “Ahh. The baseball. I follow the hockey.”
    Well, my inner voice reminded me, it is Canada.
    “We have the Fort William North Stars,” Daniel said. “It is Junior A hockey.”
    “We used to have the Minnesota North Stars until they moved to Dallas. Now we have the Minnesota Wild.”
    “I wish we had a professional hockey team.”
    I flashed on the Wild’s record over the past decade.
    “So do we,” I said.
    Daniel covered the key with his hand and slowly slid it off the counter. He replaced it a moment later with number 34.
    “I hope you will be most comfortable,” he said.
    *   *   *
    Everything in room 34 was clean, neat, and in its place. The bed was impeccably made; the towels hung just so in the bathroom; the wastebaskets were empty. Yet the air seemed heavy and thick with the coppery scent of blood. I knew that it was just my imagination, but it took a few minutes before I could breathe normally just the same. I set my overnight bag on the table in front of the window—the same table and window that Jason Truhler had described. I didn’t even remove my coat before I opened the bag and pulled out a large envelope. Inside the envelope was a copy of the photo that Truhler had downloaded onto my computer. I had printed it out in glorious color on photo-quality paper and put it into the envelope without looking at it. Now I was looking, tilting the photograph this way and that, using it to align myself in the room until I was standing approximately where the photographer must have stood when he snapped it. There was the table and chairs, the credenza and TV, the