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yard in Connecticut. He’d tried to instill this in her, often inviting her to join him in his work. Now, when she spent a day
sweeping and vacuuming, she thought of him. Or didn’t think of him, exactly, for the fact of not thinking accounted for a good deal of the pleasure those days provided. But her unthinking self, her brute body at work, felt close to her father then, and she liked the work for this reason.
    She didn’t care much for washing dishes, though. It kept you fixed in one place and didn’t have the feel of true labor. On the rare occasions when Tom was home in time for dinner, Sophie made him clean up afterward. But now the warm water comforted her hands. The one dishtowel was dirtier than most of the dishes, but there was soap and a dish rack, and she had enough to make do. Once she’d finished, she took her glass into the living room. There too, she tidied up. When she handled Crane’s folders, the urge was great to look through them. But Sophie resisted, sensing where that would lead, the entanglement that such interest would bring. She straightened them into piles neat enough to suggest at least the possibility of order. She thought she might buy cleaning supplies while at the drugstore, so she could do a proper job when she got back.
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    It occurred to her to check on Crane before going to fill his prescriptions, but she wanted to let him sleep. She was there and back before she realized that she hadn’t taken a key. She buzzed his apartment twice, knowing that he would sleep through it, before moving on to others. A voice with a heavy Spanish accent came over the intercom.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “I’m running an errand for the man on the fourth floor, and I’ve been locked out.”
    The intercom went dead, and a woman emerged from a first-floor apartment and trundled down the hall.

    â€œYou’re running errands for Mr. Crane?” the woman asked, holding the building’s front door open a few unwelcoming inches. She was short and overstuffed, in her fifties perhaps, with black hair and questioning eyes.
    â€œI just stepped out for a moment, but I forgot the key.”
    â€œMr. Crane doesn’t get visitors. We live here both ten years, and he never get a visitor.”
    â€œI’m his daughter,” she said, which seemed near enough to true and likely to carry some force.
    â€œHe never mentioned having children. You’re his daughter, and you don’t visit all these years?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Sophie said, unsure for what. Then she showed the woman the bag from the pharmacy, pointing to the prescription label. “See here, William Crane, it says.”
    Perhaps this suggested something official, for the woman now spoke with deference.“I’m Lucia Ortiz.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Ms. Ortiz. I’m Sophie.”
    â€œMr. Crane is sick? I live with him a very long time. He’s a very nice man. He’s quiet, but very nice.”
    Sophie felt the introduction of this woman into her story as an act of providence—as, in truth, she was inclined to treat all such introductions—and she saw at once how she was meant to make use of it.
    â€œYes, I’m afraid he’s quite sick.” She gestured at the bag of pill bottles, now in Lucia’s hands. “Do you think you could bring those to him later, so I don’t have to disturb him while he sleeps?”
    â€œThat’s no problem,” said Lucia Ortiz, obviously relieved not to have to let Sophie into the building.
    â€œAnother thing.” Sophie hesitated. “If you have a chance, could you just check in on him once in a while? I’m going to try to see him soon, but it’s hard for me. I’ll leave a number you can call if anything happens.”

    Sophie wrote her name and her cell phone number on a piece of paper she found in her purse. She took out a