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said.
    â€œNo,” said Lieberman.
    â€œI don’t want him, but I don’t want anyone else to have him, at least not till I have someone first, if I wanted someone, which I do not.”
    â€œSo you’re not going to tell him,” said Lieberman.
    â€œYou think he should know? He should know. He liked David. At least he said he liked David. I don’t think they met more than two or three times, but … Can you tell him, Abe?”
    â€œIn my spare time,” Lieberman said.
    â€œI’ll leave a message for him at his office,” she said. “I’m not going to work today. I’ll help Bess with Aunt Yetta, things.”
    â€œI’ll tell Todd,” said Lieberman.
    Lisa looked down. “I can’t stop thinking about myself,” she said.
    â€œSomeone close dies,” he said. “Sometimes you think about the time you’ve got and what you’re going to do with it.”
    Lisa smiled. “You’ve been reading philosophy?”
    â€œNo, Mike Royko. I gotta go, Lisa. Tell Barry and Melisa I’ll bring them something tonight.”
    â€œAre they going to have to go see David’s body?” she whispered, so softly that he barely heard her.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    She nodded and drank her coffee, knowing that there was no point in asking the next question, that she would have to go.
    Lieberman thought he heard the first faint stirrings of his grandchildren in the room above him as he shuffled to the closet, put on his still-chilled overcoat, and slipped into his shoes and wet boots.
    The day was just starting.
    â€œGet up.”
    George was aware of something, some presence, a voice, angry like his mother when he got up late for work back in Trinidad.
    â€œMmbunnn,” he mumbled, pushing away the hand that rocked him by the shoulder.
    â€œGet up,” Raymond repeated.
    George tried to open his eyes. He tried very hard and then made a special effort, spewing air from his puffed-out cheeks.
    His eyes did not want to open, did not want to see, did not want to start a new day that would make him remember something he did not want to remember.
    Raymond shoved him now, poked him with a long, thin finger.
    â€œGet up. We’ve got work.”
    â€œWork?”
    There was something different about Raymond this morning. George had only known him for about a week and Raymond had seemed like other people he knew from the Islands, even if he did have a look in his eyes and did always have a book with him. But there was something since last night, a look George did not like, and yes, Raymond was talking differently, talking like a white American.
    Now George did open his eyes.
    â€œIt’s morning. What we gonna do in the morning?”
    Raymond was dressed as he had been during the night. He was cleaning his glasses with a wad of toilet paper and staring at George, who suddenly remembered, remembered and reached for his forehead as he sat up with a start, his head buzzing painfully from an ache and the memory. Yes, atop his head was a soft reminder of warm fur.
    â€œOh, my God. We killed them. Raymond, we killed them both dead.”
    â€œShe may not be dead. The baby may not be dead,” said Raymond.
    â€œPregnant … Oh God, yes. I remember. She be having a baby,” said George.
    Raymond looked angry. Raymond looked disgusted. But why should Raymond be angry? He had shot the man with the hat before George had shot the woman. He had shot the man with the hat when there had been no reason to shoot the man. George had simply lost his mind, his senses, but Raymond had …
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” asked Raymond, looking down at his temporary partner.
    â€œNothin’,” said George, planting his bare feet on the chilled floor and rubbing his face.
    George needed a shave. He needed coffee. He needed food. He needed Raymond to tell him that they were safe, but Raymond had said something about working. How