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which remained raised.
    â€œYes,” Henrik said, trying to sound sure of himself, although he wasn’t. He knew
let
was the word he wanted, but he wasn’t sure whether it was the word the woman wanted or one she even knew. What other word might be the word he was looking for?
Sale,
possibly, but he did not want to own the room, and when he was done with it (he assumed he would be done with it eventually, and possibly sooner than that), he didn’t want to have to sell it to someone else.
Rent
was another possibility, but didn’t that word also mean “torn”? Did it
only
mean “torn”? Henrik didn’t want to take the chance and end up asking the woman whether she had any torn rooms or whether he might tear one that wasn’t already torn. Then she might never let him let a room. And once he thought that sentence, he wondered if
let
was the right word after all. But he decided to stick with it anyway. “
Let
.”
    â€œLet,” the woman repeated. “Let you do what?”
    â€œExcuse me?’
    â€œIn the room,” she said. “You’d want me to
let
you do
what
in the room?”
    Henrik turned to look at the boys, but they didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but their soup. He then turned back to the woman, who was still peering at him through the steam. Was this an invitation? And if it was, would Henrik accept it or decline? On the one hand, he was married. On the other hand, he was dead.
You have to act like I’m dead,
he’d told his wife.
I can do that
, she’d said. She hadn’t even needed to think about it. “Hey, wait,” the woman said, her face brightening a little, “are you. . . ” She seemed to want Henrik to finish the sentence for her.
    â€œHenrik Larsen,” he said.
    â€œRight,” she said. “Do you go by Henrik or just Henry?” The way she said “Henrik” left no doubt that he should go by just Henry.
    â€œJust Henry,” Henry said, and then he finally remembered what he was supposed to do, once in Broomeville. “Is Matthew here?”
    â€œMatthew?” she said. She said the name like she’d said “Henrik.”
    â€œ
Matthew,
” said one of the boys, in the same voice.
    â€œThat’s my son, Kurt, and those are his cronies,” the woman said, gesturing behind Henry. Henry didn’t know that word—
cronies
—but he guessed it referred to the two boys who had forsaken their spoons and were now drinking directly from their bowls. That meant Kurt was the thin, curly-headed boy with the spacey blue eyes who’d been striking the machine earlier. Now he seemed to be paying attention to Henry. He nodded at Henry, and Henry smiled in return, and the boy scowled back. Henry turned back to the woman.
    â€œMatthew,” she said again. There was an expression on her face that suggested she really wanted to punch someone. Henry took a step back from the bar. “Do you mean Matty?”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œMatthew,” she said. “No one calls him Matthew.”
    â€œNo one?” Henry said. Because he’d been given very strict instructions.
Go to the Lumber Lodge. Ask for Matthew
. Meanwhile the woman still had that look on her face.
    â€œAlmost no one,” she said.

13
    M atthew, Matthew. Kurt’s mother must have said “Matthew” about a thousand times, like it was more than just a name. It wasn’t. It was just a name: his father’s name. Although it was true that almost no one called him that, except for his mother, and only when she was mad at him. And even then, when she called him Matthew, it was like she was impersonating someone else who called him by that name. Like when he called Kevin and Tyler his cronies, which was not his but rather his mother’s name for them.
    â€œCronies,” he said to them, loud enough to be heard over their slurping but not loud enough for his