"Running fast."

"Yeah, but whatever I ran away from came with."

The front door knocked with wind.

I grabbed her hand until the knocking stopped.

Then she picked up her big black purse and handed over a small book, trembling.

"Here."

I read: Los Angeles Telephone Directory, 1900. "Oh, Lord," I whispered. "Tell me why I brought that?" she said.

I turned from the As on down through the Gs and Hs and on through M and TV and O to the end, the names, the names, from a lost year, the names, oh my God, the names.

"Let it sink in," said Constance.

I started up front. A for Alexander, Albert, and William. B for Burroughs. C for…

"Good grief," I whispered. "1900. This is I960." I looked at Constance, pale under her eternal summer tan. "These people. Only a few are still alive." I stared at the names. "No use calling most of these numbers. This is-"

"What?"

"A Book of the Dead."

"Bull's— eye."

"A Book of the Dead," I said. "Egyptian. Fresh from the tomb."

"Fresh out." Constance waited.

"Someone sent this to you?" I said. "Was there a note?"

"There doesn't have to be a note, does there?"

I turned more pages. "No. Since practically everyone here is gone, the implication is-“

"I'll soon be silent."

"You'd be the last name in these pages of the dead?"

"Yep," said Constance.

I went to turn the heat up and shivered.

"What an awful thing to do."

"Awful."

"Telephone books," I murmured. "Maggie says I cry at them, but it all depends on what telephone books, when."

"All depends. Now…"

From her purse she pulled out a second small black book.

"Open that."

I opened it and read, "Constance Rattigan" and her address on the beach, and turned to the first page. It was all As.