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but I did not. Milo had left it on not inadvertently but for some reason.
    At the bed once more, I gazed at him for a while in the low lamplight. A beautiful child.
    Although blessed with a vivid imagination, I could not begin to envision the topography of Milo’s mindscape.
    I worried about him a lot.
    He had no friends his age because kids bored him. Penny, Lassie, Vivian Norby, Clotilda, Grimbald, and I were his social universe.
    I hoped he could live as normally as his gifts would allow, but I felt inadequate to show him the way. I wanted my son to know much laughter and more love, to appreciate the grace of this world and the abiding mystery of it, to know the pleasure of small achievements, of trifles and of follies, to be always aware of the million wonderful little pictures in the big one, to be a humble master of his gift and not the servant of it. Because I could not imagine what it must be like to be him, I could not lead on every issue; much of the time, we would have to find our way together.
    I loved him enough to endure any horror for him and to die that he might be spared.
    No matter how much you care for another person, however, you can’t guarantee him a happy life, not with love or money, not with sacrifice. You can only do your best—and pray for him.
    I kissed Milo on the forehead without disturbing his sleep. Impulsively, I kissed Lassie on the head, as well. She seemed to be pleased by this affection, but I got some fur on my lips.
    The bedside clock read 5:00 A.M. In seven and a half hours, the dog would be sitting in the living-room window seat, watching the street and wondering when I would return with her cherished companion— and Milo and I would be having lunch at Roxie’s Bistro, spying on the nation’s premier literary critic.

   At 12:10, the lunch crowd in Roxie’s Bistro was slightly noisier than the dinner customers, but the ambience remained relaxing and conducive to quiet conversation.
    Hamal Sarkissian seated us at a table for two at the back of the long rectangular room. He provided a booster pillow for Milo.
    “Will you want wine with lunch?” Hamal asked the boy.
    “A glass or two,” Milo confirmed.
    “I will have it for you in fifteen years,” Hamal said.
    I had told Penny that I was taking Milo to the library, to an electronics store to buy items he needed for his current project, and finally to lunch at Roxie’s. All this was true. I don’t lie to Penny.
    I neglected, however, to tell her that at lunch I would get a glimpse of the elusive Shearman Waxx. This is deception by omission, and it is not admirable behavior.
    Considering that I had no intention of either approaching the critic or speaking to him, I saw no harm in this small deception, noneed to concern Penny or to have to listen to her admonition to “Let it go.”
    Only once before had I deceived her by omission. That previous instance involved an issue more serious than this one. At the start of our courtship, and now for ten years, I had carefully avoided revealing to her the key fact about myself, the most formative experience of my life, for it seemed to be a weight she should not have to carry.
    Because Milo and I arrived before Waxx, I was not at risk of running a variation of my garage-door stunt, accidentally driving through the restaurant, killing the critic at his lunch, and thus being wrongly suspected of premeditated murder.
    Having conspired with me earlier on the phone, Hamal pointed to a table at the midpoint of the restaurant. “He will be seated there, by the window. He always reads a book while he dines. You will know him. He is a strange man.”
    Earlier, on the Internet, I sought out the only known photograph of Shearman Waxx, which proved to be of no use. The image was as blurry as all those snapshots of Big Foot striding through woods and meadows.
    When Hamal left us alone, Milo said, “What strange man?”
    “Just a guy. A customer. Hamal thinks he’s