Eleven thirty. I asked Roger what the emergency had been at Jennifer’s house on Monday afternoon. Four fire rescue units came out to my street. He said he thought Jennifer had died. I was surprised and incredulous. Apparently a mortician had been here as well as the medics. Lenore will be alone now— if Roger’s guess is right. And the fence will still be built this week. Life and death are very strange. This is so unexpected, and untimely. I don’t know those neighbors very well, but I know how difficult it will be for Lenore. I’m resisting the impulse to believe I was somehow to blame for the death. Such a delusion is fairly common in human emotional makeup. Throughout the human tragedy, the beautiful sunny day persists, with the sound of lawn mowers and the sight of Cherie trimming rose bushes. The world still goes on, heedlessly and forgetfully, through the day… and the night.