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corner, so hardly anyone can see it. A lot of Cruiser owners do that, for a joke.”
    â€œNo, it never occurred to me,” said Jan, relieved to find one difference between her and Lucille. She’d changed her mind: being too much like another person was scary—and, in an odd way, suffocating.
    â€œI think I have another one back home I can send you.”
    â€œNo. No, thank you. I’d better get home. I’ve got a lot to do.”
    Â 
    B OBBY Lee watched Jan go down the row to her car and get in behind the steering wheel. “What do you think?” he asked his wife.
    Lucille watched Jan start up and drive off. “So far, so good,” she said.

Four
    J AN came up to the beautiful carved walnut door of the old house and paused—as she often did—to admire the pattern of leaves and flowers carved into it, before pushing the doorbell. After a minute, she pushed it again. Still no answer, so she got out her copy of the old-fashioned bronze key. The house was big, and Aunt Edyth was slightly deaf, so sometimes she didn’t hear the bell. Aunt Edyth’s housekeeper had a key for the very same reason.
    Jan was met at the door by Lizzie, Aunt Edyth’s miniature fox terrier. The little black and white dog shot past her, across the porch and lawn to her favorite shrub, where she squatted with a look that could only be interpreted as relief.
    That was odd. Aunt Edyth was always good about letting the dog out. Jan paused in the big entrance hall, waiting for Lizzie to come back. Meanwhile, she cocked her head, inhaling and listening. It was almost nine o’clock—she was here to take Aunt Edyth to church—and she was surprised not to smell coffee. Her aunt was an early riser in any case and enjoyed a cup of coffee first thing “to get her blood stirring,” as she put it. Jan enjoyed sharing that pre-church cup of the rich, dark brew.
    But there was no welcoming smell, or even the small clatter of someone in the kitchen preparing it.
    And poor Lizzie was still tinkling, an indication that she hadn’t been let out last night, either.
    Perhaps Aunt Edyth was ill. Though clear-minded and physically active, her great-aunt was, after all, ninety-seven. Starting to feel anxious, Jan went slowly up the stairs to the second floor. The windowless corridor was dim and creepy; she flipped on the ceiling lights. There were rooms on either side, their doors all shut, except one—the bathroom. Its open door laid a splash of light across the narrow carpet. At the end of the hall, facing Jan, was another door, also shut. Like all the woodwork in the house, it was made of oak so hard it hurt her knuckles when she rapped on it.
    â€œAunt Edyth? Are you in there?”
    There was no reply. The open bathroom door meant she wasn’t in there; the lack of coffee smell meant she wasn’t in the kitchen; the anxious dog meant she hadn’t gone out. Feeling frightened now, Jan opened the door.
    On the tall wooden bed, which stood against the center of the wall, lay a thin figure. She was on her back, the covers draped evenly across her, head turned away, toward the window. Jan could see the white hair, thick and abundant for someone her aunt’s age, pulled into its usual bun, half hidden by her big feather pillow.
    â€œAunt Edyth?” called Jan, loud enough to penetrate deaf ears. But there was no response; the figure lay perfectly still. Fearing the worst, Jan went around the bed for a look. Aunt Edyth’s features were unnaturally pale and frozen into a look of surprise. Her chin was lifted. Her eyes and mouth were open, as if startled by Jan’s appearance beside her pillow. “It’s just me,” said Jan—then she realized that Aunt Edyth wasn’t looking at her. Or at anything. Jan stretched out her forefinger to touch the wrinkled skin: cold.
    â€œOh, dear,” said Jan, pulling back her finger hastily. Then, feeling she ought to