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mantel clock, the hiss of the radiator—anything to get the sound of her crying out of my head.
    I must have finally drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was standing in Sara’s doorway. It was still nighttime. Liz was there, shaking me.
    “Wake up, honey,” she said. “Glen. Wake up. You’re sleepwalking.”
    She’d heard me coming up the stairs, heavy footfalls that didn’t sound right. Like Frankenstein, she said later.
    “I am awake,” I said.
    “What is it?” Sara asked.
    “Just checking on you,” I said.
    The strange thing is, once I came around, I remembered it all—walking up the stairs, opening the door, seeing her curled under the comforter. But I’d done those things without so much as a thought in my head.
    “Are you really awake?” Liz said.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    She was looking at me like she couldn’t trust a word I said.
    “Then go back to bed,” she said, already closing the door. “I’m staying with Sara.”
    If there had been a lock, I’m sure she would have used it.
    I woke groggy and confused, staring out at a gray morning. I’d never sleepwalked before, and it unnerved me. If I could ramble around the house unconscious, what was to stop me from, say, picking up the phone in my sleep and confessing to Rizzo? A light rain began to fall as I drove to the bakery for Liz’s favorite cinnamon buns. Except for a handful of weekend commuters heading to the train station, downtown was mostly deserted at that hour on a Saturday. Back at the house, I brought in the paper and was just starting to check the obituaries when Liz came tiptoeing downstairs. I set the paper aside and walked toward her with my arms out, like a zombie.
    “Stop it,” she said, swatting my arms and trying not to laugh. “You gave me the creeps. It’s like your body was there but you weren’t.”
    I told her about Juwan’s mom showing up and said maybe that had something to do with my sleepwalking.
    “You should see a doctor,” she said. “Seriously. What if you’d scared Sara? Or accidentally hurt her?”
    “How could I hurt her?”
    “People do all kinds of things when they’re sleepwalking.”
    I didn’t want to argue. I suggested we spend the rest of the weekend in Philadelphia at her mom’s, give things across the street a chance to die down. She reminded me we had plans; we were supposed to go out to dinner with Sara’s friend Lacy and her parents.
    “Lacy wants to see the tree,” Sara said, coming into the kitchen in her nightshirt. “Everybody in my class does.”
    Liz reached for the obituaries. “Here it is.” She looked at me to make sure it was okay and began to read aloud. Juwan Richards had been born and raised in South Orange, she said. He was a senior at the high school, an honor student who hoped for a career in medicine. He worked summers as a lifeguard at the village pool. His hobbies included music and skateboarding.
    “And drinking and driving,” I said.
    Sara’s eyes widened in surprise, but I was so intent on trying not to feel anything for Juwan that I didn’t care. Ignoring me, Liz continued. Juwan was survived by his mother, Tawana; his father, who lived in Maryland; and an older sister in California. A graveside service was being held the following afternoon, at Rosedale Cemetery.
    Sara put down her cinnamon bun. “Can we go?”
    “No,” I said.
    “But I want to see him again. I want to say good-bye.”
    “Sweetie, he’s dead.”
    “That’s why I want to.”
    “You didn’t even know him.”
    “But Dad—”
    A clap of thunder rattled the window. The rain was suddenly a downpour. Sara got up from the table and went into the dining room.
    “The teddy bear! The pictures! Everything’s getting soaked.”
    I joined her at the window. The wreath had already blown over, and flowers lay scattered among big brown sycamore leaves on the freshly laid sod.
    “Do something!”
    “Let’s give it a minute,” I said, “see if it lets