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darkening.
    “Nothing’s working. Things are broken. The bathroom’s dirty. Do you have another room?”
    “No. We’re fully booked.”
    “For how long?”
    “For another month.”
    “Can you recommend another hotel near here?”
    Winter had seen the hotel next door, but hadn’t been tempted. He was tired and hot and sweaty and miserable. He wanted a nice room and a shower and a glass of whisky and a little time to think things over.
    “No,” the man said.
    “A smaller hotel, perhaps. A more modest establishment.”
    “No idea,” the man said, turning away. He has every right, Winter thought, It’s not his fault. I could have been more polite.
    “Do you have a town guide that lists the hotels here?”
    “What am I going to do with that room?” the man said, avoiding the question. He eyed Winter up and down like a hostile barrister. “I’m stuck now with an empty room.”
    “Board it up,” Winter said, and marched out, trailing his case behind him.
     
    He was lucky. When he’d driven into town earlier that day, he’d noticed a sign attached to a wall. It couldn’t be more than a hundred yards away.
    He drove back a short stretch of the Avenida de Severo Ochoa and found the sign on the corner of a little side street that was for pedestrians only. He parked and walked down the Calle Luna, which was filled with afternoon shadow. About a half block along, on the right, was the Hostal La Luna, behind a glass door at the back of its own patio. Winter could see that each room had a little balcony.
    There had been a last-minute cancellation, and he took a look at the room, which was very Spanish and quiet and clean, with a refrigerator and a bathroom.
    He had a shower, then drank his whisky naked in the semidarkness. The elderly couple who ran the establishment were chatting quietly down on the walled patio. Marble floor and whitewashed walls.
    They couldn’t speak English, not a single word, but the man had assessed Winter’s state and served him a chilled San Miguel on the table in the shade of a parasol, even before Winter had checked in for an indefinite stay.
    The whisky circled around his mouth and slid into his brain. His head cleared somewhat. The room had an unfamiliar smell to it, as if it had been scrubbed with sea salt and southern spices. The twin beds were of timeless Latin design, medieval in style. Between them was an image of the Madonna, praying for him and his father. That was what occurred to him when he first saw the picture in his simple room. It was the only item of decoration.
    This is the way to live.
    He reached for his mobile. It was nearly seven and the sun was much weaker now. The door to the patio was ajar, and the wooden venetian blinds were half up in the glassless window opening, protected by a black wrought-iron grille.
    “Angela here.”
    “It’s Erik.”
    “Hi! Where are you?”
    “In my room. But not the hotel whose number you have.”
    “So you moved,” and he knew she was smiling.
    “Of course.”
    “How’s your father?”
    “They’ve moved him out of intensive care. Is that a good sign?”
    “I suppose it must be.”
    “Suppose? You’re the doctor.” He hoped he didn’t sound as if he were complaining.
    “I don’t have access to his chart, Erik.” She paused. “Did you speak to him?”
    “Yes.”
    ‘And?“
    “He seems pretty ... well, strong.”
    “That sounds encouraging.”
    “Yes.”
    “What was it like, seeing him again?”
    “As if we’d been chatting only last week.”
    “Sure?”
    “Depends what you mean. We spoke about safe subjects.”
    “Everything takes time. He has to get better first.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Are you tired?”
    “Not so tired that I can’t indulge in a glass of duty-free whisky. What about you?”
    “We’re fine.”
    He took her “we” as a greeting from the new family: Angela and her ever-enlarging stomach.
    “Take it easy at work.”
    “I always do. The mergers have resulted in much better working