I should say clearly, because the version that gets told back to me has me knocking on random doors: I did not knock on random doors.

I had one address in the state of Connecticut that I could go to, and it was that one, and I had been to it exactly twice, in 2016 and 2018, for company parties, and I had not spoken to the man who lived there in six years.

I had, in that sense, arrived at a stranger’s house.

Arthur Vance was a name on a Christmas card list I no longer maintained.

I did not know whether he still lived there.

I did not know whether he was married now.

I had looked at that gate for fifty minutes with the engine off, and the reason I finally pressed the button is not courage.

It is that Nora woke up and asked where we were sleeping.

The intercom did not answer.

Nine seconds, twelve seconds, fourteen.

I have the timestamp from the gate log because it became, later, an exhibit, which is an absurd thing to say about a doorbell.

And then the gate clicked and started to swing open on its own, and nobody had said a single word to me.

Part Two: Three Days

I had not come straight there.