“My hygiene is fine, thank you.”

“Why are you doing this, exactly?”

“I told you. I want to—”

“No,” Kate said firmly. “It’s not about your job. You’re doing it because you think you’re going to crack the big mystery.”

“What mystery?

“The mystery of Thaddeus Palgrave. You think there’s some kind of pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow. You think he’s going to take you under his wing or something. You want him to sponsor you for membership in the League of Pompous Dickwads.”

“Mr. Clarke,” said Brian, imitating Palgrave’s vaguely British accent, “the packet of clippings and scrap material you have gathered on the Union fortifications at City Point has been deemed sufficiently anal by our board of directors. It is my pleasure to present you with a Pompous Dickwad badge and decoder ring.”

“Asinus asinum fricat,” Kate said. “The ass rubs the ass.”

I sipped my beer. “You two have issues,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Brian. “We’re the problem.”

“Look, I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but the deadline is tomorrow and I have to get back.”

“Not a chance, New Guy. This is an intervention. We’re deprogramming you.”

“But tomorrow—”

Kate reached across the table and grabbed both of my hands. “I’m going to tell you a story,” she said. “Three years ago, I took my sister’s kids off her hands for a weekend. By Sunday afternoon, I’m going nuts. I’m desperate. So I take them to a Renaissance fair in Wheaton. It’s pretty grim. Jesters. Minstrels. Guys in funny hats playing flutes. So there I am, drinking a flagon of Diet Coke and watching a beanbag toss, and who do I see standing nearby, waiting for the royal joust to begin? None other than Thaddeus Palgrave. Wearing a white shirt and a bow tie. Holding a tankard of mead. And that, New Guy, is the road you’re on. One day you, too, will be a man who attends Renaissance fairs in his work clothes.”

I considered this. “I have a life outside the office, you know. I have other things going on. Maybe I’m just gathering material.” I regretted it as soon as I said it.

“Ah! The novel!” Kate clasped her hands together. “How’s that going? Does it feature a recent college graduate nursing a broken heart? Does he struggle, with quiet dignity, to build his life anew?”

“No,” said Brian. “It’s about a promising young journalist learning his craft, with quiet dignity, as he makes his way in a cold, unfeeling world.”

I reached for the pitcher and refilled my glass. “How did the two of you manage to fill your time before I got here?”

Brian leaned back. “In later years, it was recalled that young Jeff Clarke never spoke of his novel, giving no hint of the epic struggle playing out in the fiery crucible of his genius. Whenever the topic was raised, he gave a boyish grin and pushed the subject aside.”

“With quiet dignity,” Kate added.

I never made it back to the office. We ordered another pitcher of beer and just talked. Brian talked about his band. Kate talked about her family. I talked about my romantic woes and had the good grace to laugh at myself just a bit. At one point Kate reached across and ran her fingers along Brian’s arm, answering a question that had been in my mind for some time.

We closed down the bar at two A.M. I left them outside the parking garage on Cameron Street, pretending not to take an interest in whether they left in one car or two. There was a light dusting of snow on the cobblestones, and I had my hands in my pockets as I trudged toward my apartment, occasionally turning my face up to the falling snow.

I’m still not sure what made me turn up Prince Street to walk past the LifeSpan building, but as I looked up at the third-floor windows, I was only mildly surprised to see a light in Palgrave’s office. As I drew nearer, I could see a shadow move across the window.

I kept walking. That wasn’t me anymore, working away in the middle of the night. I was a young man who knew how to enjoy life. I was a man with friends and ambitions and a half-written manuscript. I glanced up again. The light flickered as the shadow passed again.

THE guard at the security desk was sleeping, and I took care not to wake him. I rode the elevator to the third floor and buzzed myself in with my entry card. Everything felt dim and empty. My shoes made a peculiar crackling sound on the industrial carpet.

It’s important to understand that I never intended to speak to Palgrave. I just wanted to spend a few minutes in my office. I knew now that I wasn’t going to be able to erase that last check mark. I think I may have been planning to write a note of explanation to Mr. Albamarle. If Palgrave happened to see me and register that I was working every bit as hard as he was, well, so be it. I settled behind my desk and took the cover off my typewriter, leaning back in the chair to compose my thoughts.

When I woke up three hours later, Palgrave was sitting opposite me in the folding chair. It took a few moments for it to sink in. I can’t say I was startled—somehow his presence struck me as familiar and almost reassuring—but I knew at once that we had turned a strange corner. For one thing, he was smiling.

He waited a few moments while I came around. “You sleep here?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “No, I just came in to do a little work. I didn’t mean—”

He waved it off. “I sleep here. Most of the time. I have an apartment, but it’s just for show.”

“What?”

He was rubbing his chin, staring at me appraisingly as if trying to guess my age and weight. “You’re very persistent, Mr. Clarke,” he said.

“It’s the job.”

“The job, yes, but more than that. You’re curious. Always asking people about their hobbies, their interests.”

“Look, I never meant to be nosy, I just—”

“No, it’s good. I should do more of that sort of thing. I forget to do it. There’s so little point, in the circumstances. The time is so short, it scarcely seems worth the trouble. People like you are gone in the blink of an eye.”

I bristled. “No, you’re wrong. I’m committed to this job. I’m going to stay at least five years. If you drive me off this series, I’ll do my time on Imagination Station and work my way back. I’m in for the long haul.”

“The long haul!” he cried. “Five years!” He clapped his hands. I had never seen him so animated. “Five whole years! As long as that? Do you know how long I’ve been here?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Thirteen years in this particular building. But do you know how long I’ve been . . . here? In the larger sense?”

“I’m not quite sure I—”

“Twelve hundred and sixty-seven years. But my relationship to time isn’t quite linear.”

“Pardon me?”

“So you’ll forgive me if your five-year commitment fails to impress. You must excuse me if I haven’t troubled to get to know you, to stand at the water cooler and make inquiries about your life and your interests and your football team. Would you take the trouble to get to know a fruit fly? Would you pause to exchange pleasantries with a falling leaf or a raindrop running down a windowpane?”

I struggled for a foothold. “I have no idea—”

“Shall I tell you my source for that troublesome information in my latest chapter? Worm castles? Mr. Clarke, I was there. At Chancellorsville. In 1863. I heard it firsthand. I tried to tell you: I’m the source.” He reached past me to a bookshelf and pulled down one of the early volumes of the series. Mustering the Troops. He flipped it open to a section of regimental photographs, showing rows and rows of grim-faced young men posing with their units before they mobilized. “There I am in the third row, Second Connecticut Light Artillery. No one could understand why I insisted on using this particular photo in the book. Just my idea of a little joke. And they say I have no sense of humor.”