"Two hundred American?"

"Um, yeah. Two hundred American. It's too much, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't know. How important is this, Kelly?"

"I won't do it if you think it's too much. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, no. That's okay. If it's important."

"I know I'm costing you a fortune. I do try to save money wherever I can, Daddy. I mean, you wouldn't believe all the things I don't do."

"I know. It's okay. I'll wire the money to your account this afternoon."

"You sure it's okay?"

"It's fine. But next year will have to be different, Kelly."

"Oh, next year will be real different. I mean, I'll be done with all my classes- I'll just have my final project: two or three canvases for the group show, depending how much Dale thinks I should do. I'll be able to take a part-time job next year. I'm sorry everything's so expensive, Daddy. Sometimes I wonder how you manage. I hope you know how grateful I am."

"Don't you worry about it."

"I hope one day I make a ton of money off my painting so I can pay some of it back."

"Really, Kelly, don't you even think about that." The phone was slick with sweat in Cardinal's hand, and his heart flapped at his rib cage. Kelly's gratitude had unmanned him. In the core of his being, a door clicked shut, a bolt shot home, and a sign long out of use was hung over the window: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

"You sound a little tense, Daddy. Work driving you crazy?"

"Well, the press is yelling at us. I get the feeling they won't be happy till we bring in the Air Force. I'm not making the progress I should."

"You will."

They closed with an exchange on their separate weathers: hers sunny and warm and measured in Fahrenheit; his bright and cold and measured in centigrade degrees below zero. Cardinal tossed the phone onto the sofa. He stood dead still in the center of the living room like a man who has just received terrible news. There was a noise from outside, and it took him a few moments to realize what it was. Then he rushed through the kitchen and threw open the side door, yelling, "Go on, beat it, you little rodent!"

He saw the raccoon's fat hindquarters wriggle under the house. Normally a raccoon would be hibernating this time of year, but the floor of Cardinal's house was leaking heat- enough heat to confuse this raccoon into thinking there was no winter. The first time Cardinal had caught sight of the masked face, the raccoon had been examining half an apple in its precise black paws. Now, it emerged two or three times a week to topple the garbage cans in his garage and root through the mess for edible scraps.

Shivering furiously, Cardinal scrambled after the bits of plastic wrap, the empty doughnut container, the gnawed chicken bone strewn across the garage floor. He went back inside just in time to hear the phone ringing.

It took him three rings to remember where he had tossed the handset. He snatched it up from among the sofa cushions just as Delorme was about to ring off.

"Oh," she said, "I thought you must be already on your way in."

"I was just leaving. What's up?"

"We got the tape back from the CBC guy. Also of course he sent the digital version? The enhanced version?" Delorme's French Canadian interrogatives had never sounded so welcome.

"Did you listen to it yet? Did you play it?"

"No. It just arrived this second."

"I'll be right there."

22

KEITH London sat up groggily in bed. The room he was in looked unfamiliar, and he wondered if this was partly because it seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, like a carousel running down. When it came to a stop and his eyes managed to focus, he saw four walls covered with cheap wooden paneling, warped and stained by water damage. An armchair tilted on three legs, its arms scarred with cigarette burns. On the floor, a short flat space heater buzzed intermittently as if a bug were trapped inside. Overhead a dim bulb throbbed behind a cheap fixture, and a Via Rail poster of Vancouver curled on one wall. The tiny window was boarded up from the outside. The air was clogged with smells of heating oil, mold, and wet concrete.

Then he remembered: He'd picked up his stuff from the bus station while Eric and Edie waited for him outside. He remembered getting into a small car with Eric and Edie and having a beer in their kitchen. But he didn't remember going to bed or taking his clothes off. After the beer, nothing. His limbs felt gross and exhausted as if he had slept too long. He rubbed his face, and the flesh felt rubbery and strangely hot. His watch- evidently he had forgotten to take it off in his hurry to undress- said three o'clock. The need to urinate was pressing.

Although the room could not have been more than nine feet square, it had two doors. Keith set his feet on the cold floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. He remained like this for some time, and would have fallen asleep again, if the need for a bathroom had not been urgent. He forced himself up onto his feet and leaned against the wall for balance. The first door he tried was locked- stuck, anyway- but the second, luckily, proved to be a bathroom, the fittings almost miniaturized to fit the tiny cubicle.

Tottering back toward the bed, he caught sight of his guitar case propped in a corner. He had just enough time to register that his duffel bag and his clothes were nowhere in sight, before he slid headlong into a dark pit of unconsciousness.

When he woke- hours later? days?- Eric Fraser was sitting on the bed, big grin on his face. "Lazarus awakes," he said quietly.

Keith, with a great effort, propped himself up against the headboard. He could feel his body listing to one side but hadn't the strength to right himself. His mouth and throat were terribly dry; when he tried to speak his voice was a feeble croak. "How long have I been asleep?"

Eric held two fingers so close to Keith's face that he couldn't focus. It looked like three fingers.

"Two whole days?" Was that possible? Keith could not remember ever having slept that long in his life. A couple of times in early adolescence he'd slept for sixteen hours, and once, when very ill with a fever, he'd conked out for twenty. But two days?

If I've really been asleep for two days, I must be very, very sick. Healthy people don't sleep for two days. That's called coma. Keith was about to express some of this when Eric preempted him by pressing a cold hand against his forehead and holding it there with a thoughtful expression. "Yesterday you had a fever of a hundred and three. Edie took your temperature. She used your armpit."

"Where are my clothes? I think I better see a doctor."

"Edie's washing your clothes. You threw up."

"Did I? That's awful." Keith rubbed his throat; it was burning. "Is there any water?"

"Bathroom." Eric pointed to a small door. "But you'd better drink some of this." He presented a steaming mug. "Edie's concoction. She brought it home from the drugstore. Don't worry. Edie's a pharmacist."

Steamy aromas of honey and lemon were flowing from the cup. Keith took a sip, scorching his tongue. It was a flu remedy or something, probably nothing more than Tylenol and antihistamine, but it felt good going down. After a few sips Keith began to feel better. The fog lifted a little. He pointed to the Polaroid hanging from Eric's neck. "What's that for?"

"Test shots. Edie and I are deeply involved in filmmaking. It's one of the reasons we noticed you. We were hoping you'd be in our film."

"What kind of film is it?"

"Low budget. Experimental. Poetic. I wanted to ask you the other night, but I was afraid it would be… inappropriate."

"That's okay. I'd be glad to help." Keith slid back down in the bed and curled up. Sleep seemed once again like an excellent idea.