I slept poorly, and kept slipping in and out of a drinking dream. I woke up remembering none of the details, but concerned at first that it was somehow more than a dream, that I’d actually had a drink.

Elaine was still sleeping. I got out of bed quietly to keep from waking her. Our bedside tables each sported a handgun—the nine on my side, the .38 on hers. In the shower, I tried unsuccessfully to come up with some suitable version of The family that prays together stays together. When I got back to the bedroom the bed was empty, and so was her night table.

I got dressed and went to the kitchen. She wasn’t there, but she’d made coffee, and the .38 now rested on the counter next to the coffee urn. I walked around looking for her, then returned to the kitchen when I heard the shower running. I poured myself a cup of coffee and toasted a muffin, and I was pouring a second cup by the time she joined me. She was wearing a belted silk robe, one I’d given her for Christmas a couple of years back. It had been one of my more successful presents. She hadn’t put on makeup yet, and her scrubbed face looked like a girl’s.

She asked if I wanted some eggs, and I thought about it and decided I didn’t. She turned on the TV and got the local news, and there was nothing on it that demanded my attention. There was really only one topic of interest to either of us.

I said, “He may have left town.”

“No. He’s out there.”

“If he is, he hasn’t got much time. They’ve got his prints.”

“That’ll help a lot. ‘Attention—be on the lookout for a man with the following fingerprints …’”

“The point is the city’s closing down around him. If he didn’t catch a train yesterday, he’ll have trouble boarding one today. They’ll be looking for him at Penn Station. And Grand Central, and the bus terminal and the airports.”

“He could have a car,” she said. “Or he could kill somebody and take theirs.”

“Possible.”

“He’s still in town. I can tell.”

I’d be quicker to dismiss claims of intuitive knowledge if I hadn’t learned over the years to trust them when I have them myself. And I’d have been especially hard put to argue with her this time because I agreed with her. I wasn’t as certain as she was, but I didn’t think he’d left.

And hadn’t I felt him watching me on the way home from the meeting last night?

Maybe, and maybe not. Maybe anxiety was sufficient explanation for the way I’d felt. God knows there was enough of it on hand to do the job.

I said, “I think you’re probably right. Right or wrong, though, we have to act as if he’s here.”

“Meaning stay inside.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. I’ve got the worst case of cabin fever I’ve ever had in my life, but I’m also scared to death. At this point it would be hard to get me to leave the apartment.”

“Good.”

“I hope it’s not a permanent case of agoraphobia. I heard about a man once, he used to edit a science-fiction magazine, and he wouldn’t leave his apartment building.”

“Afraid of aliens?”

“God knows what he was afraid of. God knows if it even happened, some john told me the story, he used to sell stories to the guy and I think played poker with him. None of that matters. The point is it started with him never leaving the Village, always finding an excuse not to go north of Fourteenth Street or south of Canal. Then he wouldn’t leave the block, and then he wouldn’t leave the building.”

“And then it got worse?”

“Quite a bit worse. He wouldn’t set foot out of the apartment itself, and then he wouldn’t leave the bedroom, and finally he wouldn’t get out of bed. Except to go to the bathroom. I assume he would get out of bed to go to the bathroom.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“He was editing a magazine where people walked around on the moons of Jupiter, but he couldn’t get out of his own bed. And finally the men in the white coats came and took him away, and I don’t think he ever did make it back.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen to you.”

“Probably not. But I bet there are lots of people like that, never going out the door. You don’t have to in New York, you can get everything delivered.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “you know how they keep trying to sell us home delivery of the Times?”

“ ‘Available at no extra cost now for a limited time only.’ ”

“I never saw the point,” I said, “but if we’re going to stay cooped up like this, maybe I ought to call them.”

“Where are you going? Oh, to get the paper? You want to bring me…”

I waited, but the sentence didn’t come to an end. “Bring you what?”

“Nothing,” she said. “There’s got to be something I want, but I can’t think what it is.”

I gave her a kiss. She held on to me for a little longer than usual, then let go.