Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

up to all sorts of machines. That's why it took me so long to get to the intercom.” If I could do it again, I would do it differently. But you can't do it again. I heard the voice saying, “Hello? Hello? Please.” I slid my card under the apartment building door and got away from there as fast as I could.
    Abby Black lived in #1 in a townhouse on Bedford Street. It took me two hours and twenty-three minutes to walk there, and my hand got exhausted from shaking my tambourine. There was a little sign above the door that said the poet Edna Saint Vincent Millay once lived in the house, and that it was the narrowest house in New York. I wondered if Edna Saint Vincent Millay was a man or a woman. I tried the key, and it went in halfway, but then it stopped. I knocked. No one answered, even though I could hear someone talking inside, and I guessed that #1 meant the first floor, so I knocked again. I was willing to be annoying if that's what was necessary.
    A woman opened the door and said, “Can I help you?” She was incredibly beautiful, with a face like Mom's, which seemed like it was smiling even when she wasn't smiling, and huge boobs. I especially liked how her earrings sometimes touched her neck. It made me wish all of a sudden that I'd brought some kind of invention for her, so that she'd have a reason to like me. Even something small and simple, like a phosphorus brooch.
    “Hi.” “Hello.” “Are you Abby Black?” “Yes.” “I'm Oskar Schell.” “Hello.” “Hi.” I told her, “I'm sure people tell you this constantly, but if you looked up 'incredibly beautiful' in the dictionary, there would be a picture of you.” She cracked up a bit and said, “People never tell me that.” “I bet they do.” She cracked up a bit more. “They don't.” “Then you hang out with the wrong people.” “You might be right about that.” “Because you're incredibly beautiful.”
    She opened the door a bit more. I asked, “Did you know Thomas Schell?” “Excuse me?” “Did you know Thomas Schell?” She thought. I wondered why she had to think. “No.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” There was something unsure about the way she said she was sure, which made me think that maybe she was keeping some sort of secret from me. So what would that secret be? I handed her the envelope and said, “Does this mean anything to you?” She looked at it for a while. “I don't think so. Should it?” “Only if it does,” I told her. “It doesn't,” she told me. I didn't believe her.
    “Would it be OK if I came in?” I asked. “Now is not really the best time.” “Why not?” “I'm in the middle of something.” “What kind of something?” “Is that any of your business?” “Is that a rhetorical question?” “Yes.” “Do you have a job?” “Yes.” “What's your job?” “I am an epidemiologist.” “You study diseases.” “Yes.” “Fascinating.” “Listen, I don't know what it is that you need, but if it has to do with that envelope, I'm sure I can't help—” “I'm extremely thirsty,” I said, touching my throat, which is the universal sign for thirsty. “There's a deli on the corner.” “Actually, I'm diabetic and I need some sugar asap.” Lie #35. “Do you mean A.S.A.P.?” “Anyway.”
    I didn't feel great about lying, and I didn't believe in being able to know what's going to happen before it happens, but for some reason I knew I had to get inside her apartment. In exchange for the lie, I made
    a promise to myself that when I got a raise in my allowance, I would donate part of that raise to people who in reality do have diabetes. She took a heavy breath, like she was incredibly frustrated, but on the other hand, she didn't ask me to leave. A man's voice called something from inside. “Orange juice?” she asked. “Do you have any coffee?” “Follow me,” she said, and she walked into the apartment. “What about non-dairy creamer?”
    I got a look around as I followed her, and everything was clean and perfect. There were neat photographs on the walls, including one where you could see an African-American woman's VJ, which made me feel self-conscious. “Where are the sofa cushions?” “It doesn't have cushions.” “What is that?” “You mean the painting?” “Your apartment smells good.” The man in the other room called again, this time extremely loudly, like he was desperate, but she didn't pay any attention, like she didn't hear it, or didn't care.
    I