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washcloth first at Thad and then at the open magazine on the table. “Thad, you got your pound of flesh out of this. People got their pound of flesh out of this. And Frederick Clawson got jack shit . . . which was just what he deserved. ”
    â€œThanks,” he said.
    She shrugged. “Sure. You bleed too much sometimes, Thad. ”
    â€œIs that the trouble?”
    â€œYes— all the trouble . . . William, honestly! Thad, if you’d help me just a little—”
    Thad closed the magazine and carried Will into the twins’ bedroom behind Liz, who had Wendy. The chubby baby was warm and pleasantly heavy, his arms slung casually around Thad’s neck as he goggled at everything with his usual interest. Liz laid Wendy down on one changing table; Thad laid Will down on the other. They swapped dry diapers for soggy ones, Liz moving a little faster than Thad.
    â€œWell,” Thad said, “we’ve been in People magazine, and that’s the end of that. Right?”
    â€œYes,” she said, and smiled. Something in that smile did not ring quite true to Thad, but he remembered his own weird laughing fit and decided to leave it be. Sometimes he was just not very sure about things—it was a kind of mental analogue to his physical clumsiness—and then he picked away at Liz. She rarely snapped at him about it, but sometimes he could see a tiredness creep into her eyes when he went on too long. What had she said? You bleed too much sometimes, Thad.
    He pinned Will’s diapers closed, keeping a forearm on the wriggling but cheerful baby’s stomach while he worked so Will wouldn’t roll off the table and kill himself, as he seemed determined to do.
    â€œBugguyrah!” Will cried.
    â€œYeah,” Thad agreed.
    â€œDivvit!” Wendy yelled.
    Thad nodded. “That makes sense, too. ”
    â€œIt’s good to have him dead,” Liz said suddenly.
    Thad looked up. He considered for a moment, then nodded. There was no need to specify who he was; they both knew. “Yeah. ”
    â€œI didn’t like him much. ”
    That’s a hell of a thing to say about your husband, he almost replied, then didn’t. It wasn’t odd, because she wasn’t talking about him. George Start’s methods of writing hadn’t been the only essential difference between the two of them.
    â€œI didn’t, either,” he said. “What’s for supper?”

Two
    BREAKING UP HOUSEKEEPING

1
    That night Thad had a nightmare. He woke from it near tears and trembling like a puppy caught out in a thunderstorm. He was with George Stark in the dream, only George was a real estate agent instead of a writer, and he was always standing just behind Thad, so he was only a voice and a shadow.

2
    The Darwin Press author-sheet—which Thad had written just before starting Oxford Blues, the second George Stark opus—stated that Stark drove “a 1967 GMC pick-up truck held together by prayer and primer paint.” In the dream, however, they had been riding in a dead-black Toronado, and Thad knew he had gotten the pick-up truck part wrong. This was what Stark drove. This jet-propelled hearse.
    The Toronado was jacked in the back and didn’t look like a realtor’s car at all. What it looked like was something a third-echelon mobster might drive around in. Thad looked over his shoulder at it as they walked toward the house Stark was for some reason showing him. He thought he would see Stark, and an icicle of sharp fear slid into his heart. But now Stark was standing just behind his other shoulder (although Thad had no idea how he could have gotten there so fast and so soundlessly), and all he could see was the car, a steel tarantula gleaming in the sunlight. There was a sticker on the high-rise rear bumper. HIGH-TONED SON OF A BITCH, it read. The words were flanked left and right by a skull and crossbones.
    The house Stark had driven him to was