“White Noise,” by Emma Cline

The dreams had mostly stopped. Still, he found himself awake, blinking in the dark room. Four A.M. He lay unmoving for a moment under the duvet. His T-shirt was stuck to his back—night sweats, the pillow swampy, the sheets damp. Roll to the other side. Spread out on the chilly sheets. Keep the eyes closed. As soon as both eyes opened, it would be straight to dull business, an organizer already laid out with his morning meds, a bottle of room-temperature Fiji water alongside.

This time tomorrow, he would know everything. Well, not exactly this time, more like 10 A.M., but, in any case, all would be decided. He believed, truly, that he would be exonerated. How could he not be? This was America. Maybe there was a moment, a day or two right when this all began, when he believed that this might be it, the end of the road. He understood Epstein hanging himself in his cell—because what would life look like, afterward? No more dinner parties, no more respect, no buffer of fear and admiration that kept you in a kind of pleasant trance, the world shaping itself around you.

And, yes, there was a moment when people no longer returned his calls, looked away from him on the street, no room at the inn, etc. But, almost as quickly, other people showed up, rushed to fill the void. Came to his Super Bowl party, let him use country houses, consult with family lawyers. He was staying at Vogel’s Connecticut house now, for example. A man wouldn’t let another man stay in his home if he was truly a leper.

He was fully awake now, adrenaline lighting up his brain, the itch to make plans, get to work. He turned on the bedside light and sat against the pillows. He guzzled the last of the stale water, groped for his legal pad. It was better, he’d learned, after the punishing rounds of discovery, to keep lists on paper. Papers got misplaced, papers disappeared.

He called Joan. “This is off the record,” he said, instantly.

Her voice was sleepy. “Hello?”

“Do you agree?” he said. “I need a verbal.”

“Harvey?” she said.

“A verbal,” he said. “Off the record.”

“Sure, Harvey.”

He heard someone in the background. “Who is that?”

“It’s Jerry. We’re in bed.”

“Well, get out of bed, O.K.? This is for your ears only. I’ll call back in five.”

Joan liked him. Legitimately liked him. She was tough, no-nonsense, but happy to soft-pedal an actor’s D.U.I. in return for a lengthy profile, gladly accepted screening invitations and was a reliable fixture at after-parties. They’d had fun times. The junket for the film that he’d triaged out of near-disaster: Harvey had hunkered down in Sag and basically rewritten the script, while the director was hauled out of rehab and barely propped up by a team of A.D.s. An Academy campaign. The liaison in Japan who took them to Gold Bar—the only white people in the place. Uni on filet mignon, a skinny press assistant hanging around who wouldn’t touch it. Who cringed when he put his arm around her, cowering on the banquette. They’d left her at the place, as a joke. As he remembered it. Let her try to find her way back to the hotel at 3 A.M. in Tokyo. This was before phones, when people got legitimately lost. And, as he remembered, Joan hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to help the girl, or insist they take her home. She had thought it was funny, too.

He dialled again.

Joan answered on the first ring.

“I want to give you the first interview after I’m exonerated,” he said. “I do. But I want to make sure you have all the facts, all the facts. ’Cause there is a lot,” he said, “a lot that has been suppressed in this case. You would be shocked to find out even a fraction of what the other side buried—”

“O.K., Harvey. I’m just walking downstairs, O.K.? Just hold your horses.”

“And this is off the record, Joan.”

“Yes, Harvey.”

“This time tomorrow”—he corrected himself—“or, you know, tomorrow, not sure when, specifically, this whole case will be revealed for what it is: an elaborate fraud, an attempt to litigate regret and make me a scapegoat. A fraud, it bears saying, that you and your cohorts at the so-called paper of record were willing participants in. A lot of very bad actors there, your colleagues. Some might say there’s a civil RICO case to be made against you—”

She didn’t respond.

“Joan?”

“Sorry, my kid has an ear infection, I think she’s awake. Can you hold on a second?”

He hung up the phone.

Time to get dressed, start the whole mess again. The Loro Piana half-zip, navy, good American bluejeans. The ankle bracelet was slim enough that it actually did seem more like a bracelet. Even as light as it was, it messed with his stride, this little annoyance, ever present, never quite fading into the background. Enough clearance underneath to pull up his thin red socks. Socks from the place the Pope gets his. Tomato red, cotton lisle, made in this tiny shop by the Vatican.

He splashed his face with water. Tightened his belt. He was losing weight. Funny that this was what it took, in the end. Not the hugely expensive doctors, the sachets of vitamins meant to replace meals, the overnight sleep study at Weill Cornell and daily Pilates instruction. All it took, it turned out, was total annihilation. Attempted annihilation, he corrected himself, the threat of annihilation.

“There’s been an assassination attempt,” he heard in his head, as if from a news announcer, “an attempt on the President’s life.” This had been a recurring thought lately: an assassination attempt, an assassination attempt. He had survived an assassination attempt. Because how else could you describe what they were trying to do to him? The shocking, incredible resources they had marshalled against one man? He was just a man, just one man in red socks and a too-thin T-shirt, an ache in his left molar, a bad back that was basically on the verge of collapse, all his cartilage scraped away so his spine was a teetering Jenga stack of disks.

A little frightening, the carpeted stairs, his ankles feeling hollow and frail. He gripped the bannister. Better to just take the elevator from now on, one of the reasons Vogel had offered the house up, that cheesy elevator.

Downstairs was quiet, the rooms dark, though a few lights were on in the kitchen. He’d assumed no one was awake, but then Gabe stepped out from the pantry. He was fully dressed, face bright and avid.

“Good morning,” Gabe said, smoothly, as if this were a normal hour, as if it weren’t only 5 A.M.. Harvey supposed that was what Gabe’s job entailed, being perpetually unsurprised. “Can I get you a little breakfast? Coffee?”

“Coffee, yes.” Harvey patted his stomach, absently. “Breakfast, no, not yet. My juice, the regular.”

“Certainly. The breakfast room is all set up. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Gabe brought in the coffee, the glass of juice. Grapefruit juice interfered with Harvey’s Lipitor. So lately he was allowed only a splash with seltzer. He missed the full glass, the scathing mouthful that used to start every day. Four newspapers were lined up in tidy order alongside the placemat—he’d gotten used to blurring his vision a little, preëmptively, just to lessen the shock upon encountering his own face suddenly on the front page, his name swimming above the fold.

Seeing the photos had been rough, worse than he’d imagined. You let go of a lot of things, had to get used to shame, but it was hard to totally abandon vanity. Harvey hobbling with the walker, the suit that the lawyers had insisted be slightly ill-fitting, slightly cheap. They wanted to make everyone feel sorry for him. A strange pose to take, at least in public. It was, he supposed, what he used to do easily enough in private—my mother died today, he said, watching the girl’s face change. I’m so lonely, just sit with me a minute, just lie here with me. Patting the hotel bed, over and over. Gripping a wrist with his face in a moue of sorrow—come on, he said, come on. Be a nice girl, not a sour one. I gave you a massage. Now you can give me one. It’s only fair.

He aimed the remote at the big television. It took up almost the whole wall, a very Master of the Universe, situation-room setup, a little rich for Vogel, who was, essentially, a money manager. He clicked the remote once, clicked twice. The screen remained blank.

“Gabe,” he called out. Nothing. “Gabe,” he said, louder, aware of how aggro his voice sounded, a bark, really, exactly what people expected from him. He should watch himself, just get into the habit of corralling certain impulses, though who was here to make a note of any bad behavior except Gabe?

“Of course,” Gabe said, taking the remote. He was so anodyne, so mild—hard to imagine him having sex, eating food, meeting any human need. He asked what channel Harvey would like.

News, naturally. On mute.

The sun was not visible yet, but the light had changed. A new day, time to get to work. He dialled the lawyer’s number. It went straight to voice mail. He dialled again. The same. And again.

The coffee was cold. Gabe brought a new carafe before Harvey could shout for him.

As Gabe poured a fresh cup, the possibility of God considering Harvey’s fate floated across his mind: a frowning white-bearded daddy gazing down, making a list of his good deeds, his failings. Like maybe this would be taken into account tomorrow. Affect the verdict.

Harvey forced himself to catch Gabe’s gaze, forced himself to smile. “Thanks,” he said, smiling hard so his eyes crinkled, and Gabe smiled back, pleasantly, though his brow furrowed a little and he seemed to be in a hurry to leave the room.

O.K., the day had barely started and already he was being kind, making moves. On the giant screen a blonde in a red fitted dress was leaning on the news desk, staring feverishly into the camera, and Harvey stared back, downing the cup of coffee. She was gesturing at numbers on a green screen, numbers that he didn’t understand yet, numbers that meant nothing to him, but soon enough the blond woman would reward his attentions: the context would be explained, the meaning revealed.

He went outside to make a few calls, putting on a waxed barn jacket from the front closet. Sure, all the staff had signed N.D.A.s, but better to be careful. He strode far enough away that Vogel’s house—a boxy brick Colonial with flickering gas lamps, likely repro, at the gravel entry circle—was barely in sight, though now the neighbor’s driveway was visible. Vogel should landscape this out, so you didn’t have to gaze on the neighbors, or, more important, so the neighbors didn’t gaze on you.

The sun was up now, a thin disk that offered no warmth, even as dew started to drip from the hedges. Nature was revving itself up. He was chatting to Nancy, the most loyal of the assistants. Nancy, with her M.S. boyfriend and schizo mother, her sad Minnesota childhood—she would never leave him.

“Harvey?” Nancy was saying. “Kristin wants to come up around three, she wants to leave the city before traffic. Is that O.K.?”

A turning, a shift—something drew his eye across the vast lawn, above the hedges. A man, opening the front door of the house next door, padding outside in old-fashioned pajamas, a puffy coat. He paused for a moment, tilting his gray face to the chilly sun. Then he walked down the steps and made his way along the driveway to the front gate. Did he see Harvey standing there? He didn’t appear to. He stooped to pick up the blue plastic bundle of the newspaper, then walked back to the terrace. He sat on a wooden bench, wriggling the paper from its sleeve.

What was it about the man’s face?

“Harvey?” Nancy was saying.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Kristin. Three.”

“She’s bringing Ruby.”

“Mmm.”

The man shook the paper open, though now he stopped reading to sweep some debris from the seat of the bench. He was near enough that Harvey could see the two sad clouds of eyebrows, wispy, fading. Why did he know this face?

“And Dr. Farrokhzad is coming at eleven. They’ll set up in the guest bedroom. They wanted me to remind you, no liquids for at least two hours beforehand. O.K.? And definitely no food.”

“Got it,” he said. Loud enough that the man looked over.

Nancy was droning on—a bankruptcy lien, some claimant who’d worked in the Holmby Hills house coming out of the woodwork. And then all at once he placed the man next door. A shock, but then, when Harvey thought about it, why should it be a surprise? He was a private man, famously so—why wouldn’t he be in Connecticut, making a life among these people? Like a secret agent, embedded in plain sight. Harvey hung up on Nancy. His whole body was aimed at the man, his brain vibrating. How could he indicate, in the tone of his voice, his expression, that, yes, he knew exactly who the man was, and, no, he wouldn’t make a fuss?

“Morning,” Harvey called across the fence, a cheery, neighborly greeting, and Don DeLillo lifted his hand in a wave.

“Nice day,” Don DeLillo said. He got to his feet, ambling closer to Harvey.

“Beautiful day,” Harvey said, his heart pounding with glee, and it felt like they were speaking in code, a mutually agreed-upon code. A thrill just to make contact. A meeting of equals.

“Field sparrow,” Don DeLillo said.

“Hmm?”

“There’s a field sparrow,” Don DeLillo said. He pointed—Harvey followed the line of his finger until he spotted it: a small brown bird, like a mouse, hopping in the icy gravel. It was dull, the color of dishwater.

“Very rare bird,” Don DeLillo mused. “This time of year. Never had one before.”

“Interesting,” Harvey said.

“I’ve heard of them showing up after storms, you know. Adverse conditions.”

“Right.”

They were communicating something, a hidden message coursing underneath this conversation—Do you know who I am? Don DeLillo was asking. Can I trust you? Are you on the level?

Yes, Harvey was trying to send back, straining to be absolutely clear, straining to communicate the entirety of his soul in a pressurized beam of light straight to Don DeLillo’s being: yes, you can trust me, yes, I’m on the level.

“Well,” Don DeLillo said, squinting at the sun, squinting at the mousy bird. “I’ll see you.”

“Yes,” Harvey said, his eyes unblinking, his voice freighted. “Yes, I’ll see you soon.”

Harvey could visualize the plan, see each step of the process, the whole thing unfolding cleanly in his mind’s eye without any hiccups or stutters. “White Noise,” the unfilmable book. Harvey’s comeback. Why would he find himself here, on this earth, in the year 2020, if not for this exact purpose?

The rights were available—Nancy found out in two minutes. Of course they were, because everything would go smoothly this time. His head was spinning. He’d seen attempts, back in the day. Recalled a script for that weirdo hockey novel Don DeLillo wrote under a pseudonym, another script kicking around for the football book. Hadn’t Rudin had the rights, for a hot minute?

What was that first line? He tried to remember. A screaming comes across the sky! A screaming. Beautiful. Vicious. A great first line. Maybe float a presentation card with the text, not strain to be too literal, try to squeeze an arty image out of it. Just let it land in the original form. A screaming comes across the sky. That was confidence. Already he was overwhelmed—calls to make, people to recruit. Draw up some preliminary numbers. But this felt right, exactly right. The perfect thing to jump into the moment, the very second that this circus ended and he was declared innocent. Thank you, he beamed out to the world, thank you. One of the couples therapists had suggested the keeping of a gratitude journal—even his ex-wife had snorted at that idea—but here he was, appreciating his blessings.

The buzz of his phone. The law firm. Finally.

“Hello, team,” Rory said. When Rory had signed on to Harvey’s defense, the papers had taken great glee in publishing a photo, gleaned from Rory’s daughter’s Facebook, of Rory in a pink pussy hat and aviator sunglasses, accompanying his daughter to the Women’s March.

There were at least five people on the call. Harvey could not quite tell what they were saying. People kept cutting each other off—“If I can just jump in for a second”; “piggybacking off Rory’s point about an immediate motion”—and now they were talking about what the next steps would be if there was another delay, what protections they could put in place for the walk out of the courthouse. None of them seemed to address the real question.

“But,” Harvey interrupted, “what’s going to happen? They’re going to say I’m innocent, right? Not guilty. Isn’t that what you promised?”

“Now, Harvey,” Rory said, his twenty-three-hundred-an-hour voice oozing through the phone. “We are just going through what will happen, hypothetically. Just to cover all the bases. We’ve mounted a tremendous defense, and I think there’s not one thing we could have done better. But. You know we can’t promise anything.”

“Then why,” Harvey said, wiping his damp brow, “the fuck would you say anything?”

The mood shifted.

“Sorry.” He was still aware that God was tracking these moments of politeness, these moments of catching himself. Or not catching himself. “You guys read ‘White Noise’?” he said.

Silence on the line.

“Come on, how many people are on this call, five? Aren’t you all Ivy League boys? None of you fuckers read ‘White Noise’?”

The silence was uneasy.

“Don DeLillo. American master. ‘A screaming comes across the sky,’ ” Harvey said. He said it again, his voice dropped an octave. “A screaming,” he said. “Comes across. The sky.”

“Isn’t that ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’?”

He didn’t recognize the voice. “Who said that?”

Rory edged in. “Harvey, excuse me—”

“Who. The fuck. Said that? I don’t know you. Why the fuck are you on this call if I don’t know you? Isn’t that illegal?”

Rory again. “Harvey, that’s Ted, he’s been in court with us every day.”

“I don’t fucking know a Ted.”

“Harvey—”

“Never mind,” Harvey said. “I’ll check in later.”

“Try to relax,” Rory said, “and just remember—” Harvey ended the call.

A quick Google, and, yes, it was fucking “Gravity’s Rainbow.” Well. So what. He’d been close, and the gist was the same, wasn’t it? A rending of the known world. That was the whole fucking point.

Enough time, before the 11 A.M. doctor visit, to watch some things down in the screening room. They still had him on the list for new releases, though they seemed to arrive a week or two late now, and the union projectionist was hard to coax out of the city. One of the subtle ways he was punished, these days. In their absence, he found himself watching television—up until recently, he had somehow been unaware of just how many television shows there were, the astonishing glut of content that had been barfed out and was just waiting patiently to be consumed.

The screening room was on the lowest level. Easiest to just take the elevator. Squat leather couches, each with a blanket folded neatly on its arm. In the back, there was a refrigerator, well-stocked baskets of food: chips, candy in a drawer. He shouldn’t. But he did—a jumbo box of Junior Mints. Who was here to stop him?

He’d been watching a show set in Chernobyl—probably eight or ten mil an episode, if he had to guess. The whole “Saving Private Ryan” chopper thing going on, sooty-faced character actors who looked like guys from his childhood neighborhood in Queens, a passel of dogs roaming through an impeccable set. Incredible, the things they were doing these days. The amount of money, almost perverse! And this got him jazzed all over again, this DeLillo project, because how could anyone argue with this level of production value, this impact? They were the culture-makers, he’d always believed—everything trickled down from people like him, choices made in a certain room in a certain office in Manhattan, choices that shaped the discourse. And even Don DeLillo would respect that. Though how much better to approach him only after the public vindication—hands clean, blank slate.

A handful of Junior Mints mashed against the roof of his mouth. The sugar made his bad molar zing. He stopped, considered a single waxy Junior Mint balanced on the end of his finger. Study the dimpled chocolate, observe the pleasing chestnut sheen. A form of meditation, he congratulated himself.

Like his mantra from that trip to Kashmir—the producers had gone way over budget, Harvey swooping in to whip things into shape. That weekend, George had insisted they all charter a plane to go visit this famous guru. The Beatles got their mantra from this guy, George told them.

It had been a miserable trip, monsoon season or some such, his armpits rashy. All Harvey drank was Coca-Cola and bottles of warm water, took blown-out shits on the hour. The whole gang of them arrived at this guru’s place, the breezy arcades and Dentyne white of the walls. They were supposed to go in, one by one, sit at the feet of this emaciated guru in his caftan. Receive their life-changing mantras, each one specific to each person, your mantra somehow the exact mantra that would correct all your life’s ills.

The guru stared out at Harvey from his little skull. Harvey had made himself hold the guy’s gaze. As the guru leaned forward, placed a dry hand on Harvey’s head, he whispered Harvey’s mantra. But Harvey sniffled just at that moment, the Coca-Cola he’d pounded on the way over bubbling up behind his sinuses, and he couldn’t make out the mantra.

And here’s the rub—the guru would never, it turned out, repeat the mantra.

“Are you kidding?”

But the guru wasn’t kidding. Harvey got angry. “Please,” he said. “Come on. I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. Just repeat it. Write it down if you don’t wanna say it. Whatever, O.K.?”

The man just looked at him placidly.

On the flight back, queasy from the diarrhea meds, his headphones blocking out the world, Harvey slept fitfully. When he woke up, there was his assistant, across the aisle, alert to whatever his next request would be. She’d gotten a mantra, too. He took the empty seat next to her.

“So.” He tented his fingers, leaned on the armrest. “Crazy trip, right? Funny?”

“Yeah,” she said, cautiously. “If you’re wondering about Helen, she knows we want the full breakdown by Monday, and I’m just waiting to hear back from B team—”

“I don’t need to talk about work right now,” Harvey said. “I’m just chatting. Can’t we just chat?”

Her smile flickered.

“You have a good time?” Harvey asked.

“Um. Yeah. It’s been interesting.”

“You’ve never been to India, right?” He was just guessing.

She blinked behind her glasses. “No, never. A really beautiful country,” she said. “Really inspiring.”

“Right.”

The silence made the girl squirm.

“So, you know,” Harvey said. “Tell me what your mantra is.”

She shifted, uncomfortable. “Come on,” she said. Trying to giggle. “You’re never supposed to tell what your mantra is.”

“Oh, please,” he said. “You don’t believe that stuff. I think you should just tell me.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she said.

But here was the thing. They both knew, as soon as he asked the question, that she would tell him her mantra. It was just a matter of how long it would take, what the moments between his demand and her capitulation would look like. In the end, it would be the same to him as any other moment of triumph. Only the in-between was different, made up of a different sequence of concessions, the particulars of each person. Some people resisted, some people did not. Some people went still, unmoving; some people started laughing, out of discomfort. He enjoyed it all, even these milder victories—it was like different flavors of ice cream. And, ultimately, he was always sated, the other person breathing hard, squinting, shifting, some new shame in her face.

Now he woke in Vogel’s screening room to the looping menu screen, the season over, his hands smeared with Junior Mints. A glance at his phone—twenty minutes before the doctor arrived. An infusion for his back pain, something he’d never tried before.

Enough time to splash his face upstairs, swish around a little toothpaste, change his shirt. His eyes were bloodshot, his throat sore.

Harvey lay on his bed with his shoes on. Or not his bed. Vogel’s bed. He missed his own bed. No way to keep the bed, was the gist. His ex-wife wanted the bed, among other things. She got the bed, and most everything else. Now she was sleeping on the horsehair and cashmere. She’d been interviewed by Vogue, her portrait taken by that photographer who shot everyone like they were in a Cadillac commercial or a police procedural. Very network. His ex-wife’s gaze was downcast, a waif dressed in a thick knit sweater and a long skirt, perched on a boulder by the rocky shoreline. She looked brave, sorrowful, as if she’d persevered through a great difficulty. Probably she could not have designed a better exit for herself, as clean and frictionless as slipping away from a party.

Harvey refreshed his e-mail. Refreshed the news sites. He searched his name, scanning the comments sections, a recent habit. Or more of a compulsion, forcing himself to wade through the vitriol until he came across at least one nice comment. He took it as an omen, and as soon as he read that single nice comment he was released. It took a while, this time, but he found one:

Maverick1972: It’s verrry INTERESTING how the girls are suddenly crying when they were asking for jobs and cars at the time! Harvey isn’t a monster its not his fault hes got what they wanted and took what he could who would blame him!!!!

Not the most eloquent defender, Maverick1972, but it gave him heart, a little rush of victory. And why shouldn’t he feel confident? One of the younger lawyers had e-mailed him PDFs of all the exhibits, shown him how to scroll through the evidence they’d amassed over the past two years. A simple glance and it was all there: photos of every single one of them, hugging him. Kissing his cheek! Pushing themselves into him, pressing their faces to his face, practically humping him there on the step-and-repeat.

Uncle Harvey, they called him, afterward.

Gabe knocked on the door. Time for the infusion. A new way they were treating chronic pain, a new attempt to mitigate the constant shock from his spine, his body a bombed-out war zone: the only thing that helped lately was the horse pills, swimmy Vicodin afternoons light-headed in the sauna, scratching his chest and arms, slapping his limp dick without any response. He’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to drink water before the infusion, much less house a box of Junior Mints, but probably, like most suggestions, it didn’t really matter.

Harvey got to his feet, with some effort. Groped for his phone. An e-mail he’d started to Nancy—cc Lewis, Honor Keating, a few of the sharper guys from the old days, people who’d been waiting to hear what he was kicking around. He was like Bob Evans, he thought, his heart stirring, marshalling Towne and Nicholson to make “Chinatown.” And here it was—the perfect property, his very own “Chinatown,” only better, because it didn’t need that little creep Polanski to rewrite the whole thing. Though, it was worth pointing out, look what had happened to Polanski—sex with a thirteen-year-old—anal!—and he’d basically been sentenced to parole, no jail time. Everything ruined by a few unfortunate press photos leaking when he was supposed to be in preproduction. Despite all that, Polanski was still making movies, still skiing the Swiss Alps with pals and winning awards. Harvey was small potatoes, compared. These were grown women.

How could anyone think Harvey belonged in jail? It was so unlikely. He’d only half listened to the jail consultant, a meeting set up in Rory’s conference room. The man had tried to scare Harvey, slamming the table hard when he saw Harvey was on his phone.

“Do you think this is a joke?” the man had screamed, neck ropy above his polo shirt, spittle flying from his mouth and landing, to Harvey’s disgust, on his own lips. He wiped it away, deliberately. Went back to his e-mails.

“White Noise”—they could make a real art-house push, emphasize that this was an old-fashioned movie, a classic. What Bob Evans would call a people picture. Get Brian on the phone. In time for next awards season—it wasn’t a crazy goal, wasn’t a totally unrealistic timeline. People wanted to help him. He had a million favors left to call in.

He shuffled to the guest room, still typing on his phone. “Now is the PERFECT TIME to do this MOVIE,” he wrote. “we as a nation are hungry 4 meaning.”

The curtains in the guest room were drawn, but the lights had been turned up to a blazing wash, a fat leather recliner pulled into the center of the room, a whole setup already plugged in and humming away—a bursting I.V. sack, a heart monitor, a silver tray of antiseptic swabs and packaged needles.

“NancY pls get Numbers pulled 2gether aSAP so I cn present 2 don delillo 2morrow eve, find out if thre is nice resto nearby, make a res, he can bring wife is f he has or gf?”

The doctor came in—tan, sexless, a chain around his neck, and hairless forearms. Plum-colored scrubs. Had he done that on purpose, removed all his body hair?

“Sir?” the doctor said.

Harvey didn’t look up from his phone.

“Sir?

“Jesus, what?”

“I just need your finger, sir. Let’s just slip this on,” the doctor said, clipping a pulse monitor on his ring finger. Harvey pretended not to notice the man’s smirk. Fuck him. Fuck the hairless doctor.

“O.K.,” the doctor said. “Remember the basics from the phone consultation?”

Harvey stared at him—Gabe had done the required phone call in Harvey’s place. He nodded.

“We’ve been starting people at a hundred, for chronic pain like yours. How does that sound?”

Harvey shrugged. “Let’s do more.”

“It might be best to just see how you respond at a hundred.”

“More,” Harvey said, mildly, and watched the doctor start to respond. “More,” Harvey said again, smiling a little, “more,” and the doctor finally gave up, sensing, maybe, that Harvey could keep this up as long as it took.

“O.K.,” the doctor said, brightly, “let’s do one-thirty-five,” as if he had been the one to suggest it. He left, and a nurse came in.

The nurse was named Anastasia, a Russian with bleached hair and too-dark eyebrows. Shapeless scrubs, a pair of white Keds, tightly laced. She was brusque but not unkind.

“And how are you, Anastasia?” Harvey said.

“Good,” she said, cheerful. She was maybe twenty-five.

“Having a good day?”

She made a face, then smiled. “Back at work, you know. It’s fine.”

“Right. You do anything fun lately?”

She didn’t seem at all bothered by his questions, happy to chat. “I went on vacation with my husband.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Where did you go with this husband?”

“Have you been to Miami?”

“Have I been to Miami?” he said. “Yeah, sure. Sure I’ve been to Miami.”

“We went. Me and my husband. I think he liked it more than me. He saw, he liked the”—she stopped, made a ballooning gesture in front of her flat chest. “All the swimsuits. His eyes were, like, pow,” she said, a googly expression on her face. “I think he wanted to stay.”

“Sounds like a real dick, Anastasia.”

She giggled. Amazing, these Soviet girls, just happy to have a husband. Probably husbands who knocked them around a little, why not. The things he could do for Anastasia, if she gave even the slightest indication of receptivity. He reminded himself to ask Gabe to find out more about her. Who was this husband? Some pale Russian with sunken eyes, guzzling protein shakes from Costco, probably a pit bull in the back yard.

Harvey adjusted himself in the big leather chair.

“Comfy?” Anastasia said.

“Mmm.”

They mixed in an anti-emetic, and a little Xanax, too, so people didn’t freak out, Anastasia explained. “So you won’t even be worried.”

The doctor came back in, smiley, fratty.

“And are we feeling ready?” He looked only at the air around Harvey, no longer making direct eye contact. Good. Let the doctor be afraid. He’d signed an N.D.A., they all did.

The machine was the size of a toaster. A thin tube hooked up to a port in the back of his hand. Anastasia prepared the area with a shot of lidocaine. Had him make a fist.

“Big strong veins!” she cooed.

He looked away when she inserted the I.V. Didn’t want to think of the veins right there, under the surface. Unsettling how it took mere seconds to gain access to his insides, open him up.

“O.K.,” the doctor said. “O.K. All set?”

Harvey felt his phone buzz in his pocket. “Hold on,” he said.

“Don’t jostle the I.V.”

It was not, as he guessed, an e-mail from the producers. Just an e-mail from his accountant: “Sending good thoughts for tomorrow.” Yes, sure, Dave, thanks for your good thoughts. None of your thoughts are good thoughts, that’s why you’re an accountant.

Harvey said, “Is this going to be scary, Anastasia? Are you going to watch over me?”

She laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.” She put the eye mask over his face. Got even closer to adjust the strap. He wished he had used the trimmer—he had a corsage of wiry black hairs at each ear. He had the feeling, lately, when he looked in the mirror, that a pile of glue was staring back at him, like he was melting.

“O.K.,” Anastasia’s voice came, faint from the new darkness. “Now I put on the headphones. Yes?”

They were big, noise-cancelling. “Blanket,” he said. Then reminded himself to throw in a “please.”

Yes. A heavy fur blanket pulled over his body, tucked by Anastasia right up under his chin. Maternally, gently. He couldn’t remember if he had sent the e-mail to Nancy—he should do that, he thought, quickly, make sure that ball got rolling. But where was his phone? No matter. He no longer cared where his phone was. Because here it was, it had arrived:

The cool whoosh of the future in his veins.

Ah. Ahh.

Had he yelled the word “help”? Or just mouthed it. Whatever panic he felt had appeared and disappeared in the same instant.

Welcome, the void said. We’ve been waiting for you.

Then his body started to rise, like a balloon nearing the ceiling, bobbing lightly. Wow, he thought, mildly. A nice drift over the city. What city? I don’t know. A city. Maybe the city from the Apple TV screen saver, a generic grid twinkling below. He was moving so slowly.

When he tried to squeeze his brain around any future plans, around making the movie, his thoughts just slipped away. All he could think of was the words “white noise.” White noise, yes—how better to describe what this feeling was?

Why couldn’t all of life be this way, this uninflected witnessing, the relief of being a vegetable? Keep him hooked up to the machine, doctor. Twenty-four hours a day, just let him rest.

Bye!

Bye, Harvey!

What was Harvey but a cardboard cutout, really, an idea of himself? How funny that he had ever cared so much.

After maybe an hour, the sensations started to fade. He felt a familiar sorrow, like when, as a kid, he could sense the end of a movie nearing, knowing soon it would all be over, knowing that soon he would be returned to the harsh reality of the world and its disappointments.

Harvey was legitimately bereft. He pushed the eye mask away from his eyes with a clumsy hand—it felt like he was wearing mittens. And then the feeling was replaced with the information—curious!—that he was now lying on the floor. It didn’t feel any different from being in the chair. He remained on the floor, very still. Feeling his chest rise and fall.

Anastasia opened the door, made a noise of surprise, then left. She returned with the doctor. Together they worked to hoist Harvey back into the chair. His legs felt weak. But he was smiling, a big dopey smile.

“You fell,” the doctor said.

“I didn’t feel anything.”

“That’s normal.”

He had to pee, badly, his bladder glowing.

Anastasia removed the I.V., easing the medical tape from his arm, careful not to rip out the hair. She was so conscientious, he thought. Perfect blond angel.

“Have you. Ever tried it?” he said, with some effort.

“No,” she said. “No, not yet.”

“You should try it,” he said to Anastasia. “You have to try it.”

“I see all the people when they come out, some are crying. But mostly they are happy, they have a good experience. Did you have a good experience?”

“Oh, yes.” Should he try to explain more? “Very good.”

“So maybe I should try it.”

“When’s your birthday? Make him give you one for your birthday. The doctor.”

“Next month, actually.”

“O.K.,” Harvey said. “It’s settled. I’m getting you an infusion for your birthday.”

She laughed, prettily. “Thank you.”

She was not even a little bit afraid of him.

“We’ll just set you right up in bed,” she was saying. “Let’s just lie down for a bit, O.K.?”

He hoped that she never stopped telling him what to do, never stopped explaining what was coming next.

“Right, up we go, right on the bed. Now your legs. Swing them up for me. Very good.”

Harvey lay on the bed.

“Are you gonna stay here?” he mumbled. “Stay with me?”

No response. When he opened his eyes, she was gone—he was alone.

Lunch in the dining room. Gabe pouring ice water from a carafe. A square of black cod, the size and thickness of a pack of cards. Charred broccolini. A scoop of bland white rice, flecked with parsley. He still felt dazed, his thoughts dropping a little bit behind. He wasn’t hungry—a few halfhearted forkfuls of rice. He felt different from the person he had been that morning, like he’d stepped off to the side of himself. His phone buzzed on the tabletop—Rory, the lawyers. He let it go to voice mail. After a few moments, the phone shivered: they had left a message. He read the transcription, auto-generated bythe phone, with one squinted eye:

“Chow had Lee it’s roar a couple be back”

He didn’t click to see the rest of the gibberish, letting his eyes close fully, his head resting on his folded arms.

Kristin texted—five minutes away. Some sense of duty, visiting her father in his hour of need. There had been no way to indicate that he would prefer to be alone, in order to more effectively tranquillize himself: he’d rather spend the day with Anastasia or hunker down in the peaceful bowels of the screening room, knocking himself out with endless episodes. Life was in many ways worse these days, but you had to admit: God had given people the tools they needed to be happy.

Kristin was his oldest daughter, unmarried with an A.D.D. kid, from designer sperm that had apparently not been so designer. Kristin ran a foundation aimed at improving graduation rates, and had signed a public pledge to give away at least half her wealth in her lifetime. Kristin, with her peculiar features, her downy cheeks. Kristin, who wrote an op-ed about choosing not to fly private anymore, for which she was roundly and deservedly mocked. She had never been able to see the wave coming, about to knock her down, though it was the clearest thing in the world.

Rory called again—Harvey answered. “Just wanting to touch base,” Rory was saying. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I know we’re just concerned, about Jurors 3 and 9, especially. We fought tooth and nail to keep them off, and with good reason, and the consultant thinks they could be the vocal ones in a closed room—”

A vague image of the women jurors appeared to him, the one with a spider pin on her lapel, the other in a silky shirt buttoned to the neck, a tight cornrowed bun on her head, always staring his way. In any other situation, he would have been aware of the women’s existence for half a second. If that. He resented having to think about them at all. Which one of them had laughed when they’d shown the photos of his naked body? His arms and legs starfished in that well-lit room?

“Just want to keep you up to date on our thinking,” Rory finished.

“Well,” Harvey said. Should he ask him to repeat himself? “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’m glad to be up to date. On your thinking.”

A nap upstairs, and now the elevator glided soundlessly down to the ground floor, depositing him, the vulnerable human, safely at his destination. He padded toward the front door, one hand trailing lightly along the wall, in case he needed the support. Kristin was milling around the entry hall, Gabe fluttering in the background. She was in a turtleneck and a quilted vest. Silver earrings and pulled-back ponytail. Awfully severe. She looked sober and anxious, her daughter clutching her hand tightly, though she was eleven or twelve.

“Grandpa!” the girl said, when she caught sight of him approaching, hobbling down the hall.

For a moment, Harvey was taken aback, his chest warming with legit joy. She sounded so guileless, Ruby, so cheerful and wholesome. When he smiled at her, already the girl seemed uninterested. Was this an A.D.D. thing?

“Hello, you,” Harvey said. He cleared his throat. He felt less groggy, less glitchy. “Hello, both of you.”

“How are you, Dad?” Kristin said, hugging him with one arm.

“You know.” He zipped and unzipped the half-zip of his sweater. “The bastards try to get you down.” He blinked at the top of the girl’s head. “Sorry. I mean the jerks.”

Kristin patted his upper arm. “Well, we’re here to get your spirits up. O.K.? We’ll think positive.”

He wished Gabe would just take over, like a cruise director, steer them toward the proper activities, keep them all energized and happy, maintain group morale, but Gabe had disappeared. “How was the drive?”

“Easy. Whatever.”

“Boring,” Ruby said. “How come there’s an elevator in a house?”

“For people like me,” he said, “people in pain. It’s easier than the stairs.”

Kristin’s face rippled—who knows why?

“Are you hungry? Come in,” he said. “Let’s sit. Sit down at least—why are we just standing around?”

Gabe had put out silver bowls of potato chips, peanut M&M’s. He appeared in the doorway to take their drink orders: Kristin wanted an espresso and a glass of seltzer, Ruby was already chewing the potato chips and shook her head.

“Water for me, too,” Harvey said.

Ruby sat on the floor, leaned back against Kristin’s legs. Kristin perched primly on the love seat, playing absently with Ruby’s hair. It occurred to him that maybe she, too, was antsy, needed something to occupy herself.

“Having a good trip?” he said.

“We went to Ellis Island,” Kristin said.

“You know, my grandparents are in the . . . book, register, whatever there. Did you see them? Find their names? Your great-grandparents. When they came from Warsaw.”

“Uh, no. You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going.”

A run of beeps from Ruby’s phone, her head bowed in concentration.

“And,” Kristin said, “we saw a matinée of ‘Hamilton.’ ”

“I’ve seen it twice already,” Ruby said. “This one wasn’t even the original cast.”

“That’s true,” Kristin said. “Her friend at school is the kid of—what’s the guy, the guy from ‘Cheers’ who did that Broadway show a few years ago? They were living out here, for the run. Ruby visited for spring break.”

Kristin looked at him expectantly, as if he would have follow-up questions. He folded his hands neatly on his stomach.

“How’s your back?” she said.

“Better,” he said. And it was true, since the infusion he had felt less pain. Had mostly just been less aware of pain, had not returned to the fact of the pain at the end of every thought. “I’m trying this new therapy. New thing, very cutting edge. It was actually much better than the surgery. You should try it,” Harvey said. “It’s not just for, you know, pain.”

How could he communicate what he had experienced earlier, how important it was that his daughter get an infusion as soon as possible? Maybe he could get Anastasia to come back this evening, get Kristin hooked up. Hell, even Ruby. All three of them zonked out in big easy chairs, drifting through space, attended to by a loyal blonde.

“And what about generally?” Kristin said. “Are you O.K.? Are you afraid?”

“Am I afraid?” He blinked, rapidly. “No, I’m not afraid.” That’s what he should try to make clear: how even though you felt, on the infusion, like you were floating through space and would never return to earth, it didn’t scare you.

“I just,” Kristin said. “I don’t know. I’m here for you. I know Franny has not been the most supportive”—Frances, his other daughter, ensconced in Seattle with her bitchy tech husband; Frances, who sent him a lengthy e-mail, subject line “RAPE,” and cc’d her shrink—“but you will always have me.”

“Thanks. I don’t think. I mean, I don’t know but I don’t think this is gonna go badly. You know? No one has given any indication that this is going to go sideways.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced. He suspected she thought that this scale of punishment made sense. It would have made him angry, usually—how could anyone believe he deserved this? Had he killed anyone? But that anger, so easily called forth, now seemed to exist on the other side of a pane of glass.

He pointed to where the roofline of the house next door was visible through the living-room window, the jag of black gables. “You know who lives over there?” he said. “In that brick house?” He paused, to summon the appropriate level of drama. “Don DeLillo.”

Kristin seemed distracted, not quite listening. “The writer?”

“Yes. Yes, exactly, the writer. Pretty wild, huh, right next door to your Pops. We’re actually doing a little project together, me and Don.”

Hadn’t Kristin majored in English? Shouldn’t she look thrilled, instead of concerned?

“I’m gonna send you his books,” Harvey announced. “Right now. For you, too, Ruby, a set for each of you.” The gesture pleased him. He pulled up Amazon on his phone, squinting at the screen. “Now, let me just get this going,” he said, pecking out letters in the search bar.

“Dad, I don’t need all of Don DeLillo’s books.”

“Please, it’s a pleasure. A gift.”

“We’re actually in the middle of decluttering right now,” Kristin said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “This is literature. Great literature. And maybe you’ll want to help. I’m doing an adaptation of ‘White Noise.’ It’s going to be big, sweetie. Huge. Maybe Ruby can intern on the set, like what’s-her-face Obama. Would you like that, Ruby? See how a movie gets made?”

Ruby shot him a thumbs-up without looking over, enchanted by her phone.

“You have something in development?” Kristin sounded skeptical. “But where’s the financing coming from? I thought Bob was—”

“Listen, sweetie. Everyone wants to get in on my next project. You know how many calls I get a day, people sniffing around to see where I’m headed after all this wraps up? What moves I’ll make?”

Saying the words made him even more certain—they sounded true.

“But what if. I don’t know. You know, what if this doesn’t go as you”—she seemed to be picking her words carefully, cognizant of Ruby at her feet—“as you planned?”

“Please. You think I’m going to jail? Look at me, I’m an old man.”

An early dinner, a fire crackling pleasantly in the dining room. His appetite had returned, and he swabbed the steak juice from Vogel’s embarrassing Wedgwood plate with a fat Parker House roll. Ruby ate plain spaghetti and an undressed salad. She drank ice water from a wine goblet. Kristin looked bored, ready to leave. Was it such a chore to spend time with him?

The clock in the kitchen was ticking so loudly he heard it from the dining room. Didn’t Kristin notice? Didn’t Ruby? Why were they all just sitting here eating as this steady tick marked every second?

“Gabe,” Harvey said, clutching at the man’s shirt as he refilled the Barolo. “Can we get that clock off, turn it off. Is it new? How come I hear every single tick?”

“Of course,” Gabe said. “No problem. I’ll take the batteries out right away.”

Ruby watched this exchange with interest.

Harvey’s phone kept buzzing on the table: texts of support. Last-minute exhortations from the lawyers, a request to RETURN MY CALL ASAP—he barely glanced at those. Some talk of bail, what to do if the judge denied their motion—“remanded,” not a word he wanted to probe too hard. His eyes went soft, not exactly taking it in. Much better to focus on the other messages, the “Don’t let this get you down” text, the “Soon this will all be in the rearview!” e-mail.

“Look at this,” Harvey said, turning the phone toward Kristin so she could see the latest lengthy text, a fat bubble of blue filling the screen. “Paulie says he’ll take me out the minute this is all over. Said to pencil in Capri in August.” Nice to imagine August on the boat, the dinner at the cliffs, the low votives along the table. Maybe Don DeLillo could join. Make a note to have Nancy overnight Don DeLillo a DVD of “Contempt.”

“Great,” Kristin said.

“What?” Harvey put his phone down. “Why do you say it like that, like it’s bad?”

“It’s just. I don’t know if you should be, like, celebrating.”

Ruby was eagle-eyed now, taking this in.

“Who’s celebrating?” He gestured at the table, the staid windows segmenting the quickly darkening sky. “Is this a celebration, some wild party? I thought we were having a peaceful dinner? A quiet dinner with my daughter and granddaughter.”

Kristin sighed, stared at her still full plate. “Sorry.”

Another piece of steak, another Parker House roll. The green beans he grabbed with his fingers, everything speckled from the pepper mill wielded by Gabe. “Thank you,” Harvey made a point of saying to Gabe. “Thank you,” he repeated, to no one in particular.

Ruby gulped her ice water.

“You tired, sweetheart?” Kristin asked her. Ruby shrugged.

“She’s getting tired,” Kristin said. “We should think about going pretty soon.”

“I’m not tired,” Ruby said.

“It’s a long drive back,” Kristin said. “I don’t love driving in the dark.”

Harvey finished his wine. Tilting the empty glass back and forth. “What’s the difference between the dark now and the dark in a few hours?” He had not meant it to sound accusatory—he really wondered.

“Dessert?” Gabe said, appearing in the doorway. “Angel-food cake and berries, or crème brûlée? We have sorbet.”

“I’m full,” Kristin said. “Sounds so yummy, though.”

“Cake,” Ruby said, scooting up on her chair. “And, like, what kind of sorbet do you have?”

“Gabe, bring out all the sorbets,” Harvey said, “and one of everything else. My family is visiting. It’s a special occasion.”

“Really?” Ruby looked at Kristin, who smiled tightly. On the table, Harvey’s phone buzzed.

Joan, the reporter, had sent a series of question marks. If you really want to talk with me honestly, I think we should set up a chat tonight.

Harvey turned his phone over.

“You could spend the night,” Harvey said. “We could watch something, downstairs.” To Ruby, “There’s candy in the screening room. You can pick whatever. King size.”

“She’s already had a lot of sugar today.”

“Skittles have horse hooves in them,” Ruby said. “Sick, right?”

“It is sick.” He nodded at the gloomy horse painting over the mantelpiece, jittery in the light of the candle. “You notice all these horses everywhere? It’s, like, every room has a horse painting. I saw on the, you know, hand towels, too. A horse caricature.”

“You mean silhouette,” Kristin said.

Harvey shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

Ruby patted his hand, once, twice. The gesture moved him. It would be fun, having Ruby intern on the movie. He had a swift and detailed daydream: Don DeLillo writing Ruby a letter of recommendation for college, Ruby waving from the dais of her graduation, beaming love at Harvey. But before he could respond, maybe even take Ruby’s hand in his, Kristin had pushed her chair back, was gathering up her purse, folding her soiled napkin. “We should hit the road,” she said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep over? There’s so many rooms. You can ride the elevator.”

Kristin smiled, sadly.

“Tea? Coffee? Anything? Let me call Gabe,” he said. But their departure was already set in motion. Pretty soon he would be waving at their car as they pulled away and left him alone, and then that was exactly what he was doing. He lingered outside in the driveway, the barn jacket zipped up, his bare head cold, his nostrils sharpening with frigid air. The house next door, the house of Don DeLillo, was silent, all the windows black. No car in the driveway, no signs of life. Where had he gone, Don DeLillo?

Upstairs, Gabe had laid out his clothes for the morning: The suit hanging from the closet door. The red socks draped alongside the butterscotch split-toe bluchers. The walker probably folded and waiting by the door downstairs.

He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, waiting for the bath to fill. The ankle bracelet was waterproof, fine to wear in the shower, but he’d thought, at first, that he had to keep it dry, so he’d started taking baths. And now he preferred baths, liked feeling like a tea bag, steeping in the scalding water.

Around his body, the bathwater was cloudy with soap, tepid water he drained and refilled with more hot water. His phone and a heavy tumbler of Scotch on the porcelain ledge, the Scotch not exactly condoned by his doctors. But Gabe seemed to understand this was a special night, a night that deserved kindness. The pour had been especially generous. Harvey slipped the soap under each armpit, around the belly, the groin that he didn’t quite acknowledge, a habit from childhood, hitting the area with soap but never looking at his body, his gaze focussing somewhere beyond. Then his legs, his knees poking out of the water like two bald monks. The soap shot out from his fist—he groped for it in the opaque water, then gave up.

A knock on the door—Gabe. “I’m just going to close up the house for the night,” he said. “I left a sleeping pill on the nightstand with a fresh bottle of water. Can I get you anything else for now?”

“Thanks,” Harvey called in the direction of the closed door. “Nothing. Thanks.”

Another missed call from Rory. Forget Rory. He should get in touch with Joan. She had always helped him.

“Harvey,” Joan said. She sounded weary. “I don’t have time to do anything before tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”

“Listen, listen. Just stay with me, O.K.? Joan? You know me. You’ve known me for years. I’m not a monster. You know I’m not a monster.”

He’d worked hard, hadn’t he? Bought his mother a house. Let Nancy’s M.S. boyfriend piggyback on her health insurance. “You can tell the truth from the lies, can’t you, Joan?”

“Harvey.” Was she just going to keep repeating his name in that doomed register? Why was she acting like it was already over, like he’d already been convicted? His heart beat rapidly. He clutched the phone harder to his ear with wet hands. “Joan. I remember things, too, Joan. Remember that girl in Tokyo? Gold Bar,” he said, triumphantly. “Gold Bar. You left her there. She was crying and you left her there. Remember that, Joan?”

“Jesus, Harvey.”

“So you do remember?”

“What is this? Are you threatening me?” Her voice was a monotone, a professional monotone.

“No, no,” he said, “not threatening, just—”

“Don’t you dare threaten me, Harvey. Do not. Fucking. Dare.”

He had never heard her sound like that. Her tone so careful, clipped. Like she was talking to someone doomed. A new and sudden panic was seizing him, a freezing bite at the nape of his neck, as if he’d been taken in the jaws of a terrible animal.

Perhaps a resolution would not be as clean as he’d assumed, not be as swift and total. All the things that had happened he could barely remember, so that at first he’d actually listened with some interest to the testimony, curious to hear what he’d supposedly done. But it had quickly become boring. He assumed everyone had felt the same way, assumed everyone was similarly bored. It had all seemed to occur at the wrong end of a telescope, far away and distorted—tales set in hotel rooms, hallways of restaurants that had closed almost a decade ago. Bar 89 no longer existed. The girl was saying he had called her once from his cell phone, told her he was standing out in front of Lady M and did she think it was totally naughty if he went inside and got a cake?

This made him look up—had he said that?

As the trial had gone on, Harvey found himself fuzzing out, daydreaming, filling and refilling his water glass just to have something to do. The other girl said he had wanted to film her. Made her pose for him.

“And did you pose for him?”

She nodded through tears. He glanced at the jury—no one seemed too distressed. Rory hadn’t made eye contact with him, but Harvey could tell, by a slight upturn of his lips, that he, too, thought this was ridiculous.

“Did he invite you to parties?” the lawyer said. “And you attended, even after this incident?”

The girl looked at her hands. “I like parties,” she said. “Everyone likes parties.”

The trial could have ended right there.

“Joan,” Harvey said. “Wait.”

But it was over. He had lost her.

“Goodbye, Harvey.”

He called back. Once. Twice. Five times. The calls went straight to voice mail.

Gabe had turned down the bedcovers, dimmed the lights. Drawn all the curtains. Another slug of Scotch. Pajama pants drawstringed at his waist, a purple Lakers T-shirt he found in Vogel’s top drawer. Fuzzy socks with snowflakes on them, white wool and ice blue, his pajama pants tucked into the top. Cozy, cozy. He could, at this moment, meet every one of his needs: always be warm, always be fed. What if that changed? Unbearable, unthinkable. Who knows how long he sat there in the dim room? How long until a sound outside broke the spell?

Harvey made his way to the window, and pulled back the curtain. The noise was coming from the house next door, Don DeLillo’s house—it was his car, Don DeLillo’s car, popping along the gravel, coming to a stop in front of the house. The car’s interior lights turned on, bright enough that Harvey saw the outline of Don DeLillo in the driver’s seat. He seemed to be sitting very still, sitting very upright. Was he waiting for Harvey to join him? Waiting for their midnight meeting, there in the quiet countryside? An assignation amid its sleeping citizens, dreaming in their beds, unaware of Harvey and Don DeLillo vibrating on a higher frequency? Why else would Don DeLillo just be sitting there, the dome light like a beacon, summoning Harvey?

Harvey shrugged on the barn jacket, a beanie with earflaps that he grabbed from a basket of gloves and hats in the entry closet. A horse appliqué on the hat, hovering right over his brow.

One great yank and the front door was open—except the world was ending, an earsplitting, pants-shitting sound ripping through the silence. An alarm—he was in danger! Or, actually, he was the danger—he’d set off some security system, but no time to explain to Gabe. He strode out into the brisk night. A night, he noted, of no stars, a poetic observation, one he would share with Don DeLillo. The alarm continued its steady bleat, the volume seeming to increase. The covered patio furniture hulked in shadowy arrangement—he glided around it, heading toward the fence. He was moving fluidly, moving without any pain. The car came in and out of sight, the interior light still on, the beacon guiding his way.

Here was the fence, and there, on the other side, was Don DeLillo. He was still sitting in the car—talking on the phone, Harvey could see now, a rectangle of light casting Don DeLillo’s face in sickly blue. The radio was on, or music was playing, the chatter drifting through the night, in the intermittent silence of the alarm. Harvey started to wave. Don DeLillo would know what to do. How to fix the things that had gone wrong. The alarm behind him was louder, he wasn’t imagining it. Don DeLillo had noticed, too, his head cocked, his face turning in Harvey’s direction.

“It’s me,” Harvey called out, raising his hand, waving, hoping to be seen in the darkness. “I’m here.”

Don DeLillo was unfolding himself from the car, standing with one hand cupped over his eyes—but why? There was no sun.

“Hello,” Harvey said, and Don DeLillo paused, the driver’s door ajar.

Harvey was pressed right up against the fence now, the slats coming to his chin, only his head poking over, like a gargoyle. “Good evening,” Harvey yelled, in a rush. His hands were gripping the fence slats, which were, for some reason, damp. His loafers were soaked.

“Is everything O.K.?” Don DeLillo called.

“I just want to talk,” Harvey said, “if you have a minute? Just a quick”—he rocked on his toes, his mind grasping for the word—“a quick chat.”

“Hold on, I’ll call you back,” Don DeLillo said into the phone, then shut the car door, making his slow way on the gravel toward Harvey. He was coming closer. Every step was audible, an icy crunch.

“Are you all right?” Don DeLillo said, near enough now for Harvey to make out his face above his scarf, a face mooning out of the darkness—his eyes were wet berries.

“I’m fine,” Harvey said. “And you?”

“The alarm?” Don DeLillo gestured behind Harvey.

“Oh, yes.” He made as if to glance back at the house, then actually did. The house was all lit up, a birthday cake hovering in the void. “I forgot the, uh. Security code.”

“Right.”

“I saw your light,” Harvey said, trying to be crystal clear, to communicate, with every word he spoke, that he had received the message. “I saw you were awake, too. Both of us,” Harvey said, with significance, “couldn’t sleep.”

Didn’t Don DeLillo see how alike they were, didn’t he feel it? See how they were men, both of them, men up late on this dark winter night, pondering what the new day would bring?

Don DeLillo was studying Harvey, his face turned to the side. His brows bloomed on his old gray face.

“Maybe,” Don DeLillo said, slowly, “maybe you just needed some fresh air. Sometimes that helps me. When I can’t sleep.”

“Yes,” Harvey said, beaming. “That’s exactly right. We both needed some air.”

His fingers were freezing, almost numb. But his back didn’t hurt, not at all. His nose was runny but he didn’t make to wipe it. He tasted salt in his smile. “Don’t worry,” Harvey said, almost whispering. “I’m not gonna make a scene, or turn this into a big deal. I just,” he said, “want you to know. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Don DeLillo looked bewildered.

“Do you want me to call someone?” Don DeLillo said.

Don DeLillo was close enough that Harvey could touch him, if he tried, if he made an effort. Did he reach out first, or did Don DeLillo back up, his arms flapping a little, his phone clutched to his chest? Why did he look confused? There was so much Harvey wanted to tell him—they had so much to decide. But there was time, he reminded himself. There was all the time in the world. ♦