Joan picked up the elderly Cuban’s empathy box, held it for a moment, and then seized the handles. Mr. Lee stared at her in surprise; he moved toward her, reaching for the box…

It was not pain that she felt. Is this how it is? she wondered as she saw around her, the restaurant dim and faded. Maybe Wilbur Mercer is unconscious; that must be it. I’m escaping from you, she thought to Mr. Lee. You can’t—or at least you won’t—follow me where I’ve gone: into the tomb world of Wilbur Mercer, who is dying somewhere on a barren plain, surrounded by his enemies. Now I’m with him. And it is an escape from something worse. From you. And you’re never going to be able to get me back.

She saw, around her, a desolate expanse. The air smelled of harsh blossoms; this was the desert, and there was no rain.

A man stood before her, a sorrowful light in his gray, pain-drenched eyes. “I am your friend,” he said, “but you must go on as if I did not exist. Can you understand that?” He spread empty hands.

“No,” she said, “I can’t understand that.”

“How can I save you,” the man said, “if I can’t save myself?” He smiled: “Don’t you see? There is no salvation.”

“Then what’s it all for?” she asked.

“To show you,” Wilbur Mercer said, “that you aren’t alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go back and face them. And tell them that.”

She released the handles.

Mr. Lee, holding his gun to her, said, “Well?”

“Let’s go,” she said. “Back to the United States. Turn me over to the FBI. It doesn’t matter.”

“What did you see?” Mr. Lee said, with curiosity.

“I won’t tell you.”

“But I can learn it anyhow. From your mind.” He was probing, now, listening with his head cocked on one side. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he was pouting.