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grow, in six years’ time, one new leaf). Had Elaine been here on the sidewalk right now, she would have told him, “Bob, stay in the present.” Because dimly Bob was aware of what was happening to him as his brother’s car turned the corner, left him , dimly, he knew, but—oh, poor Elaine, dead now from some awful disease, and she had tried so hard with him, been so kind—it did no good. The sunlight shattered him.
    Bob, who was four years old when his father died, remembered only the sun on the hood of the car that day, and that his father had been covered by a blanket, also—always—Susan’s little-girl accusing voice: “It’s all your fault, you stupid-head.”
    Now, standing on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, New York, Bob pictured his brother tossing him the car key, watched the town car disappear, thought of the task that was waiting, and inside him was the cry Jimmy, don’t go .
    Adriana stepped through the door.

2
    Susan Olson lived in a narrow three-story house not far from town. Since her divorce seven years earlier she had rented the top rooms to an old woman named Mrs. Drinkwater, who came and went with less frequency these days, and who never complained about the music coming from Zach’s room, and always paid her rent on time. The night before Zach was to turn himself in, Susan had to climb the stairs, knock on the old woman’s door, and explain to her what had happened. Mrs. Drinkwater was surprisingly sanguine. “Dear, dear,” she said, sitting on the chair by her little desk. She was wearing a pink rayon robe, and her stockings were rolled to right above her knees; her gray hair was pinned back, but much of it was falling down. This is how she looked if she wasn’t dressed to go out, which was a lot of the time. She was thin as kindling.
    “You need to know,” Susan said, sitting down on the bed, “because after tomorrow you might get asked by reporters what he’s like.”
    The old lady shook her head slowly. “Well, he’s quiet.” She looked at Susan. Her glasses were huge trifocals, and wherever her eyes were, you could never quite see into them directly; they wavered around. “Never been rude to me,” she added.
    “I can’t tell you what to say.”
    “Nice your brother’s coming. Is it the famous one?”
    “No. The famous one is off vacationing with his wife.”
    A long silence followed. Mrs. Drinkwater said, “Zachary’s father? Does he know?”
    “I emailed him.”
    “He’s still living in … Sweden?”
    Susan nodded.
    Mrs. Drinkwater looked at her little desk, then at the wall above it. “I wonder what that’s like, living in Sweden.”
    “I hope you sleep,” Susan said. “I’m sorry about this.”
    “I hope you sleep, dear. Do you have a pill?”
    “I don’t take them.”
    “I see.”
    Susan stood, ran a hand over her short hair, looked around as though she was supposed to do something but couldn’t remember what.
    “Good night, dear,” said Mrs. Drinkwater.
    Susan walked one flight down and knocked lightly on Zach’s door. He was lying on his bed, huge earphones over his ears. She tapped her own ear to indicate that he should remove them. His laptop lay on the bed beside him. “Are you frightened?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    The room was almost dark. Only one small light was on, over a bookshelf that had stacks of magazines piled on it. A few books lay scattered below. The shades were drawn, and the walls, painted black a few years earlier—Susan had come home from work one day and found them that way—were empty of posters or photographs.
    “Did you hear from your father?”
    “No.” His voice was husky and deep.
    “I asked him to email you.”
    “I don’t want you to ask.”
    “He’s your father.”
    “He shouldn’t write me because you tell him to.”
    After a long moment she said, “Try and get some sleep.”
    At noontime the next day she made Zach tomato soup from a can and a grilled cheese sandwich. He bent his head close to the bowl