Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

to?”
    I didn't know if she was wrong to. And I didn't know why Mom hadn't said anything about their conversation, or even about the message.
    “The key? You told her about it?” “I assumed she already knew.” “And my mission?”
    It didn't make any sense.
    Why hadn't Mom said anything?
    Or done anything?
    Or cared at all?
    And then, all of a sudden, it made perfect sense.
    All of a sudden I understood why, when Mom asked where I was going, and I said “Out,” she didn't ask any more questions. She didn't have to, because she knew.
    It made sense that Ada knew I lived on the Upper West Side, and that Carol had hot cookies waiting when I knocked on her door, and that [email protected] said “Good luck, Oskar” when I left, even though I was ninety-nine-percent sure I hadn't told him that my name was Oskar.
    They knew I was coming.
    Mom had talked to all of them before I had.
    Even Mr. Black was part of it. He must have known I was going to knock on his door that day, because she must have told him. She probably told him to go around with me, and keep me company, and keep me safe. Did he even really like me? And were all of his amazing stories even true? Were his hearing aids real? The bed that pulled? Were the bullets and roses bullets and roses?
    The whole time.
    Everyone.
    Everything.
    Probably Grandma knew.
    Probably even the renter.
    Was the renter even the renter?
    My search was a play that Mom had written, and she knew the ending when I was at the beginning.
    I asked Abby, “Was your door open because you knew I was coming?” She didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then she said, “Yes.”
    “Where's your husband?” “He's not my husband.” “I don't. Understand. ANYTHING!” “He's my ex-husband.” “Where is he?” “He's at work.” “But it's Sunday night.” She said, “He does foreign markets.” “What?” “It's Monday morning in Japan.”
    “There's a young man here to see you,” the woman behind the desk said into the phone, and it made me feel so weird to think that he was on the other end of the line, even if I knew I was getting confused about who “he” was. “Yes,” she said, “a very young man.” Then she said, “No.” Then she said, “Oskar Schell.” Then she said, “Yes. He says to see you.”
    “May I ask what this concerns?” she asked me. “He says his dad,” she said into the phone. Then she said, “That's what he says.” Then she said, “OK.” Then she said to me, “Go down the hallway. His door is the third on the left.”
    There was art that was probably famous on the walls. There were incredibly beautiful views out of the windows, which Dad would have loved. But I didn't look at any of it, and I didn't take any pictures. I'd never been so concentrated in my life, because I'd never been closer to the lock. I knocked on the third door on the left, which had a sign on it that said WILLIAM BLACK. A voice from inside the room said, “Come in.”
    “What can I do for you tonight?” said a man behind a desk. He was about the same age that Dad would have been, or I guess still was, if dead people have ages. He had brownish-grayish hair, a short beard, and round brown glasses. For a second he looked familiar, and I wondered if he was the person I had seen from the Empire State Building through the binocular machine. But then I realized that was impossible, because we were at Fifty-seventh Street, which is north, obviously. There were a bunch of picture frames on his desk. I looked at them quickly to make sure Dad wasn't in any of the pictures.
    I asked, “Did you know my dad?” He leaned back in his chair and said, “I'm not sure. Who was your dad?” “Thomas Schell.” He thought for a minute. I hated how he had to think. “No,” he said. “I don't know any Schells.” “Knew.” “Excuse me?” “He's dead, so you couldn't know him now.” “I'm sorry to hear that.” “You must have known him, though.” “No. I'm sure I didn't.” “But you must have.”
    I told him, “I found a little envelope that had your name on it, and I thought maybe it was your wife, who I know is now your ex-wife, but she said she didn't know what it was, and your name is William, and I wasn't anywhere near the W's yet—” “My wife?” “I went and talked to her.” “Talked to her where?” “The narrowest townhouse in New York.” “How was she?” “What do you mean?” “How did she seem?” “Sad.” “Sad how?” “Just