“Yes,” Susan stammered. “Dr. Kyriakides … yes.”

“I thought he might do this. Sometime.”

“It’s more important than you think.” But how to say this? “He wants you to know—”

John hushed her. “Humor me,” he said. “Give me a game.”

She looked at the board. In high school, she had belonged to the chess club. She had even played in a couple of local tournaments—not too badly. But—

“You’ll win,” she said.

“You know that about me?”

“Dr. Kyriakides said—”

“Your move,” John said.

She advanced the white king’s pawn two squares, reflexively.

“No talk,” John instructed her. “As a favor.” He responded with his own king’s pawn. “I appreciate it.”

She played out the opening—a Ruy Lopez—but was soon in a kind of free fall; he did something unexpected with his queen’s knight and her pawn ranks began to unravel. His queen stood in place, a vast but nonspecific threat; he gave up a bishop to expose her king, and the queen at last came swooping out to give checkmate. They had not even castled.

Of course, the winning was inevitable. She knew—Dr. Kyriakides had told her—that John Shaw had played tournament chess for a time; that he had never lost a game; that he had dropped out of competition before his record and rating began to attract attention. She wondered how the board must look to him. Simple, she imagined. A graph of possibilities; a kindergarten problem.

He thanked her and began to set up the pieces again, his large hands moving slowly, meticulously. She said, “You spend a lot of time here?”

“Yes.”

“Playing chess?”

“Sometimes. Most of the regulars have given up on me.”