Not yet, she said. Something must have happened after he dropped you off, but whatever that was, it doesn’t involve Belinda. She was already dead by then.

Then whose blood is it?

Sandra went quiet then, because she didn’t have an answer. You were picturing the whole cycle again, watching the news, waiting for the phone call, waiting to see who else was dead.

But then Sandra did have an answer. And it made perfect sense. You haven’t spoken to Hans, she said.

That’s right.

Is it possible it’s his blood?

You thought about it, as if it were a memory you could recall, but of course it wasn’t. Maybe you’d had an altercation, and he had driven away bleeding and . . . was he even still alive?

Jerry?

I don’t know. I guess it’s possible.

She looked at the trash bags, the tarpaulin, and she started to cry. I almost didn’t make it back in time. I rang and rang, but you didn’t answer, and Mae only rang me because she wanted to check in, she said she regretted not ringing me the other night, and if she hadn’t . . . or if she had put it off a little longer, then right now you’d . . . you’d—

You finally reached out to her, placing one hand on her knee and the other on her arm. But she did ring you, and you did make it home in time, you said, and you felt relief, but you also felt scared because there was still the matter of the bloody knife and the shirt. Something had happened.

Let’s clean this up, then call Hans, she said.

Cleaning up the room was everything in reverse, and it felt weird because hanging up the trash bags and laying out the tarpaulin, well, never during any of that did you think you’d be putting this stuff away. Sandra wasn’t able to get hold of Hans, but left a message. She sounded concerned, yet you know she’d have forgiven you if you had hurt him.

Then she went upstairs to freshen up. To get her emotions under control. To process everything that was going on. To change out of her sweaty clothes. That was when your phone rang. It was Hans.

I’m in trouble. I’ve humiliated my family and I’m the laughingstock of the world, and I’ve—

People will get over it, Hans said. You’re only one waterskiing cat away from being forgotten about.

It’s worse than that, you told him, and then you poured yourself a drink. You asked him if it were true that he had picked you up. He said yes. You asked if the two of you had fought, if you had cut him, and he said no. You asked if there was blood on your shirt, and he said nothing then, as if he was the one who was having problems remembering. So you asked him again, and then he said yes, there was blood. He said he had asked you about it at the time, but you had no answer. You asked where the knife came from, but he hadn’t seen one.

It doesn’t line up with what Nurse Mae told Sandra, but somewhere between all that hearsay, and the gin and tonics, the details have gotten lost. But it will get sorted soon. Hans is on his way over.

Henry is trying to say something, but he can’t find the words, which is a shame because it feels important. Hopefully Hans and Henry can work together to help figure it out. You asked Hans to bring over another couple of bottles of gin too. Hans will know what to do. Solving problems—that’s such a Hans thing.

Jerry is sitting in a taxi handing money over to the driver when his phone rings.

“You okay, buddy?”

The driver looks concerned. He’s a big guy whose chest is hanging on his stomach, and whose arms are as thick as Jerry’s legs. He has skin tags tagging his neck and sunspots spotting his scalp. To Jerry he looks like a human baked potato.

“I’m . . . I’m okay.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Jerry looks out the window. He’s outside his house. The phone is still ringing.

“This is where I live,” he says.

“Then good job I brought you here,” the taxi driver says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” The driver hands him his change. Jerry looks at his wrist, but he’s not wearing a watch. “What’s the time?”

“Just after six.”

He climbs out of the car. The day is darkening. It’s cool too. He looks down at the phone, but doesn’t recognize it. Where has he been? Shopping? Visiting friends? The taxi stays where it is while the driver fiddles with something on the dashboard.

Jerry answers the phone. “Hello?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Hans?”

“I’ve got him,” Hans says. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I got him.”

“Got who?”

A pause from Hans, and then, “Are you . . . are you okay?”

Jerry looks at his house. Yes, he’s okay. He must have wandered, but where he went he doesn’t know. What he does know is that lately he hasn’t been well. He’s been forgetting things. He pats down his pockets, but can’t find his keys. Sometimes he climbs out windows and goes where he shouldn’t, and if that’s what he’s just done, then perhaps he can climb back in. He moves up the pathway and around to his office.

“I’m fine,” he tells Hans.

“You’re still at the park, right?”

“What park?”

“The park where I told you to wait for me.”

“I don’t remember any park. I’m back home.”

“The nursing home?”

“What nursing home?” Jerry asks, though something about that feels familiar, but he can’t figure out why. He reaches his office. The window is shut and locked. He can see through the window and though everything looks the way it always looks, there is something a little different. The computer looks newer than he remembers, and things are in slightly different places, but for the most part it’s how it should be . . . except off a little. “No, I’m back at my house. What park are you talking about?”

“You’re back home? At your house?”

“Pretty much.”

“What does that mean?”

He makes his way to the front door. Maybe Sandra will be home from work. She’s going to give him a hard time, but if he’s lucky by the end of the day he will have forgotten. And if she isn’t home, there’s a spare key hidden in the backyard. Funny how he can remember where the key is, the day they wrapped it in a small plastic bag and hid it in the garden just under the edge of the deck, but he can’t remember the last thirty minutes.

Perhaps funny is the wrong word.

“Jerry?”

“It means I’m right outside, about to head inside.”

“You’ve remembered where the journal is?”

“You know about that?”

“Listen, Jerry, you need to listen to me very carefully. I want you to stop walking. I want you to stay on the sidewalk. I’m going to come and pick you up.”

He’s almost at the front door. He searches his pockets again in case the keys are hidden in there somewhere—how many times has he looked for his wallet or keys or phone in a pocket only to have found them there on the second or third time hunting through? He doesn’t see what the big deal is with Hans. He also doesn’t find the keys. He does find a pair of Sandra’s earrings, which seems a little odd.

“Jerry?”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you, but you’re not making any sense.”

“Concentrate, Jerry. What do you remember about today?”

He thinks back over the day. He actually can’t remember anything. That happens sometimes. His family is worried he’s going to mess up the wedding because of it. He knows they’re thinking of putting him into care.

“Jerry?”

“I don’t remember much,” he admits.

“You don’t live in that house anymore, Jerry.”

“Yeah, right,” he says, and then laughs, and then he starts knocking. Nothing funnier than playing a joke on somebody who is losing their mind.