He woke at 1:52 for no reason he could name and lay there until the ceiling stopped being interesting. Downstairs the kitchen was black except for the microwave clock. He opened the refrigerator and stood in the cold rectangle of light. Deli drawer. Four slices of provolone, folded in half, eaten with his fingers over the open door, in his boxers, at 2:11.

He was not hungry. He had eaten a full dinner at seven and would eat eggs at seven again. His wife was asleep upstairs. His son had a family in Denver now and called on Sundays for eleven minutes. The refrigerator was the only lit thing in the house at that hour, and it opened for him every time, and it asked nothing.