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many, and none of them had lasted long. They soon grew tired of her indifference in bed, tired of her unwillingness to go along with their every sexual whim.  
    George was different. He was far gentler than any of the others, more giving, as concerned about her pleasure as his own. After their third time together, he'd become serious and said, "Tell me honestly, Karen – am I doing anything wrong? Are you ... do you enjoy being with me?"  
    "Yes," she whispered, cuddling next to him. "Why?"  
    "Well, you just don't ... seem to, sometimes."  
    "I'm sorry. It's not that I don't enjoy it. I just don't ... show it much I guess."  
    He didn't seem entirely convinced.  
    Karen said, "I've never enjoyed making love this much. Never."  
    It wasn't a lie. Making love with George was better than it had ever been with any other man. But then ... that wasn't saying much. She felt no great need to make love, and when they did, she did not feel the bursts of ecstasy she'd always read and heard she was supposed to feel; there were no explosions of light in her head, no screaming orgasms
    It had nothing to do with George, of course. She wasn't sure what the problem was exactly. But part of it was the penis . Veined and lumpy, with that smell – like the smell of an old root cellar that hadn't been aired out for a long time – and they all had that sneering, slobbering slit at the tip, all trembled impatiently, selfish, stiff with anger, far more capable of taking pleasure than giving it. And at the end of it all, at the completion of their frantic drive for release, they all did what Karen had done that first time with Michael, something for which she'd always hated herself just a little – they vomited .  
    Forty-five minutes had clicked by on the digital clock by the time Karen realized her mind was wandering and she should get to sleep.  
    She wanted to roll over, snuggle up to George, but something kept her from it. Something that would not go away. Something that made her think:  
    What was it about –
     
    * * * *
     
    — Lorelle Dupree , George thought, lying awake beside Karen. He'd been going over their meeting at the door again and again, reliving it, listening to her voice. Feeling it. Thinking about the memory it had revived – the secret, velvety memory he'd kept tucked away like a cherished gift from a long-lost friend.
    He examined that memory again, holding it this way and that, and realized that it was different. Something had changed, something he could not seem to change back .  
    Now, when he remembered lying in bed, overwhelmed by the sensations ricocheting through his body, it was not his late wife who pressed the vibrator to his cock, it was –  
     
    * * * *
     
    "—Lorelle Dupree," Robby breathed in the dark of his bedroom.  
    His erection would not go away, no matter how hard he tried to distract or relieve himself.  
    Neither would the physical echo of Lorelle Dupree's finger on his throat and her hand on his chest, just over his pounding heart.  
    He lay there for most of the night, staring at his ceiling and occasionally saying her name, before finally falling asleep.  
     
     

 
    Chapter 3  
    Anxiety  
     
    Robby walked home from school the next day; he was tired from lack of sleep and thought the exercise and late-October cold would help revive him. As he turned off of Mistletoe Lane and onto his own street, he saw Jessie – the Garrys’ big golden retriever – bounding toward him, her pink tongue dangling from her yellow-toothed grin. Sebastian, the Weyland's calico cat, was licking his paws contentedly beside the road, and panicked, darting out of Jessie's way an instant before being trampled by the dog's mitt-like paws.  
    "Hey, Jess!" Robby called halfheartedly as Jessie danced around him. He heard a door thump shut and looked across the street to see Mrs. LaBianco waddling down her front steps toward her car, jangling her keys as she waved at him and said hello. He waved