“Victor, then. I can’t see you. Come closer.”

She couldn’t see me because the lights were off in her small bedroom, the shades pulled, the curtains drawn. Only a candle flickering by her bedside and a glowing stick of incense provided illumination.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Come to me.”

Standing at the edge of the room, I took a step toward her.

“Closer,” she said.

Another step.

“Closer still. Bring over chair. Let me touch your face, let me feel what is in your heart.”

I brought a chair to the side of her bed, sat down, leaned forward. She pressed her fingers over my nose, my chin, my eyes. Her skin was rough and oily both. It was like being gummed by an eel.

“You have a strong face, Victor,” she said. “A Greek face.”

“Is that good?”

“Of course, what you think? I have secret to tell you.” She glommed her hand over the side of my head and, with surprising strength, pulled me close so she could whisper. “I’m dying.”

And I believed it, yes I did, what with the way her breath smelled of rot and decay, of little creatures burrowing into the heart of the earth, of desolation and death.

“I’m dying,” she said as she pulled me closer, “and I need your help.”

It was my father who had gotten me into this. He had asked me to pay a visit to Zanita Kalakos as a favor, which was curious in and of itself. My father didn’t ask for favors. He was an old-school kind of guy, he didn’t ask anyone for anything, not for directions if he was lost, not for a loan if he was short, not for help as he struggled still to recover from the lung operation that had saved his life. The last time my father asked me for a favor was during an Eagles game when I made a brilliant comment about the efficacy of the West Coast offense against a cover-two defense. “Do me a favor,” he had said, “and shut up.”

But there he was, on the phone to my office. “I need you to see someone. An old lady.”