"And I never left," the man said. "What can I tell you? I was brand new. Needed a place to stay, and your brother needed the company. It worked out just fine."

"Did he ever talk about me?" Puckett asked. "You and your family both."

Puckett heard himself letting out a sigh. "I don't know why I should be relieved by that. I barely… and here I am…" He was stumbling over his thoughts. "You know, I really wasn't sure he would remember me."

"He remembered. You didn't get a chance to say good-bye, did you?"

"To say good-bye in person? No. Mom took me to his grave once, but I was pretty little back then. I basically just stopped thinking about him after a while."

The whole time the man was talking, he had been shaping the dixie cup slowly between his fingers, and now he was holding a nearly perfect sphere in his hands. "It's important to say goodbye. My family was at my bedside when I died."

"Were you sick?"

"Leukemia. A bad time."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be."

"But your family was there?"

"They were. You want to hear about it?"

And with that he began his story.

He said that he had been sick for a long time before he was hospitalized. "Almost three years. People say they want to die in their own home. But me, I was ready for the hospital. The sterilized sheets, the machines, the whole bit. It just seemed easier there. Easier to cast myself off, I mean. There was less to let go of. You have to understand, I was in pain. Had been in pain for a long time. I was ready to die. Whenever I felt myself slipping away, though, I would see the pictures of my wife and my boys on the wall, or I would notice the chair by the dresser and remember where I was when I picked it up, or any one of a thousand other things. They were like these little knots that I couldn't unfasten. Finally I decided that if I was going to die I needed to be in unfamiliar surroundings. Maybe because I was getting ready to move into the most unfamiliar surrounding of all. Don't know. In any case, I asked my family to put me up in the hospital, and they did. They were real good about it. They visited a couple of times a day – even my oldest, who was in college at the time. One day he asked me – Clay, that's my oldest – he asked me if I believed in an afterlife. I didn't know what to tell him. You know those stories you used to hear about people who pass through the tunnel of white light and see Heaven waiting for them on the other side? Never knew what to make of them myself. But the fact that the people who survived to tell us about it were always by definition the ones who turned around and came back – well, it would be hard for me to explain why, but it made me doubt their reliability. Still, I kept thinking about it. People used to believe that you could look into the eyes of a dead man and see an image of the last thing he ever saw. Did you know that? I had always imagined the opposite myself. That your vision turned the other way as you died. That time flipped inside out and you saw what was coming next rather than what had come before. Anyway, I wanted to answer my boy's question if I could. I didn't know whether he would be in the room when I died. Didn't know whether I would be able to communicate with him even if he was. So I decided to write him two letters. One of the letters said that there was nothing at all after you died – just a big winking out, not even darkness. I sealed that letter up in a red envelope. And the other letter said that it was all true, everything you've ever heard – the tunnel, your loved ones beckoning you on through the light, and finally Heaven – or at least something like it. I put that letter in a blue envelope. There are other possibilities, of course, but those were the two that seemed the most likely to me. I wanted to keep it simple. I made up a rhyme so I wouldn't forget which envelope was which: 'Red is dead. Blue is new.' For days I kept repeating it to myself. Red is dead. Blue is new. Red is dead. Blue is new.

See, I was going to try to choose between them at the last second, when my vision flipped. But I started to worry that I wouldn't be able to talk when the time came. So I asked the nurse to put one of the envelopes in each of my hands. I held on tight to them. My room had a window, and I could see the sky passing over the top level of the parking garage. First the sun, then the stars, and then the sun again. That kind of thing. It was evening a couple of days later when I finally died. Like I said, my whole family was there. My wife, both my boys. I could feel it coming on. This time there were no knots to hold me in place. I let go of one of the envelopes, and I clutched the other one as hard as I could."

Puckett was fascinated. "Which envelope did you hold on to?" "The red one," the man said. "Red is dead." The lower half of his face gave an awkward little twist. "Obviously I messed up." Puckett laughed. "I'll say."

"If I had it to do over again, I'd pick the blue one, of course." "Of course."

They both fell quiet after that. It was a good half minute before the man bent his head to the side and the light from the window touched the oil on his glasses, where it butterflied open in a dozen different colors. "What are you thinking about?" the man said.

"Why do you ask?"

"You were squeezing the bridge of your nose. That's your thinking gesture. You did it when I mentioned your brother's comic books, and then when I told you about my son, and you did it again just now. I'm good at spotting them."

Puckett put his hands on his knees. "I was thinking I should thank you for spending so much time with me. Believe me, it helped. But I need to be going now."

The couch released Puckett with a long creak of its springs. Before he could make his way to the door, though, the man said,

"You know, your brother was my only close friend in the city. It's good to have someone to tell your stories to. Which is my way of saying come back any time."

He reached out for Puckett in what Puckett presumed was a handshake. But when Puckett went to meet it, the man gave him the dixie cup instead: a small, round globe, worn smooth as velvet by his fingers.

"Would you mind throwing this out for me?" he said. "There's an ashtray right over there by the elevators."

So what was Puckett thinking about? Mailmen.

Specifically, the number of mailmen he had known in his life.

They were yet another subset of people he had forgotten to take into account, though so far he had been able to remember only eight of them distinctly. There was the mailman who had always asked to see his driver's license when he signed for a package, the one he had spotted buying a case of wine in the liquor store, and half a dozen others.

He was sure he would remember a few more as he let the line of his thoughts play out. It must have been the story about the letters that had brought them to mind. As it had brought his son to mind, and his second wife, and his parents – the people who would have gathered around his own hospital bed if he had had one.

He was trying his best not to think about them. It was just too hard.

The air was colder than it had been even an hour or so before, and a thick blanket of clouds had emerged while he was inside. As he was walking home, he overheard two men, maybe thirty years old, hypothesizing about various ways they might contact Laura. This was a popular subject of conversation in the city, though one that never seemed to produce any concrete initiatives.

"Has anybody thought about using a Ouija board?" one of them said.

"Well, maybe she could use a Ouija board to contact us, but it doesn't work the other way. See, I was thinking we could get everybody together and just try to, you know, project our thoughts or something. A harmonic convergence sort of thing. She believes in that shit, or at least she did back in the day."