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good.”
    “Everything OK with the prescriptions?”
    “As far as I can tell.”
    “Let me know if you need anything adjusted.”
    “I’ll do that,” Keith said.
    Even after he ended the call, the memory that roiled out of the half sleep in which he had been drifting remained with him as a kind of aftereffect, as if a flashbulb had burst and the shape of its burning still lingered against the black emptiness of his cornea. At least missing the appointment with Dr. Hoffmann meant that he would not have to discuss such topics today, a fact that offered some sense of relief, although in truth he had done little actual talking during the dozen or so meetings they had had in Houston upon his return from the mission.
Do you feel sad?
Yes.
What do you want to do about that?
I can think of no way to answer that.
Do you think the migraines are related to how you feel?
I don’t know.
Did you want to talk about anything else?
Not really. Are we done? He could not imagine the purpose of this line of questioning and so could not imagine any words that could provide an answer. The most fundamental information had been lost: trajectory, velocity, acceleration, indeed the pull of gravity itself. All he knew now was that he was unaware where such variables could be located and so he could find no possible solution, not to any of it. But he did not think this answer was what Dr. Hoffmann was looking for.
    By midafternoon he had completed the first coat of paint on the largest wall in the kitchen and had begun carefully cutting under thecabinets with a brush. When the doorbell rang his immediate thought was that he would open the door to find a delivery person with the files he had asked Jim Mullins to send from his office at JSC and with this thought in mind he jogged to the entryway, the paintbrush in his hand, and pulled open the door.
    The woman who stood there did not appear to be delivering anything. “Hello, Mr. Corcoran,” she said. “I’m Sally Erler.”
    “OK,” he said, blinking in the bright sunlight of the open doorway. He glanced around quickly for the box but there was nothing near the doorway and the only item she was carrying was a briefcase.
    “I’m your realtor,” she said.
    “What?”
    She wore a navy blue suit and smiled, extending her hand, which he took as reflex. “Your wife called me and said you’d be home,” she said. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d just drop by. Is that all right? You look busy.”
    “Busy?” he said.
    “Painting?”
    “Oh.” He looked at the brush in his hand. “Yes, I’m painting. The kitchen.”
    “Is this not a good time?”
    “No, it’s fine.”
    “If this is a bad time we can make an appointment,” she said. The smile remained on her face like a permanent mask.
    “No, it’s fine,” he said once more. He stood there in the doorway, looking at her.
    “Would you mind if I came in?”
    “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He stepped back and waved her in and when she entered he closed the door behind her.
    “Nice, nice home,” she said.
    “Barb called you?”
    “She said you were interested in selling. It’s a buyer’s market, but you know we can always make things happen.”
    “I’m sure.” He did not know what else to say and as he stood there a dull sense of irritation flooded through him and then disappeared. Did Barb think he was somehow unable to call a realtor on his own? What kind of incompetent person did she think he was? “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “A cup of coffee?”
    “No, I’m fine,” she said. “Can I take a look around?”
    “Sure. Is that what you need to do?”
    “I have to know what I’m selling, Mr. Corcoran,” she said. She showed her teeth again.
    He stepped out of her way. “OK,” he said.
    She opened the black binder in her hands and took notes. Keith wandered behind her into the living room. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were painting,” she said.
    “Yeah, I just