The voice that spoke for Elizabeth fell silent, and I thought it had finally given up for the day. And then, with Vegas actually in sight – blue and misty and wavering on the far rim of the desert – it spoke up again.

Then don’t try to fool him with a fake detour, it whispered. Fool him with a real one.

I swerved the Buick over to the shoulder and shuddered to a stop with both feet on the brake-pedal. I stared into my own wide, startled eyes in the rear-view mirror.

Inside, the voice that spoke for Elizabeth began to laugh. It was wild, mad laughter, but after a few moments I began to laugh along with it.

The other teachers laughed at me when I joined the Ninth Street Health Club. One of them wanted to know if someone had kicked sand in my face. I laughed along with them. People don’t get suspicious of a man like me as long as he keeps laughing along with them. And why shouldn’t I laugh? My wife had been dead seven years, hadn’t she? Why, she was no more than dust and hair and a few bones in her coffin! So why shouldn’t I laugh? It’s only when a man like me stops laughing that people wonder if something is wrong.

I laughed along with them even though my muscles ached all that fall and winter. I laughed even though I was constantly hungry – no more second helpings, no more late-night snacks, no more beer, no more before-dinner gin and tonic. But lots of red meat and greens, greens, greens.

I bought myself a Nautilus machine for Christmas.

No – that’s not quite right. Elizabeth bought me a Nautilus machine for Christmas.