Strangers

removed from the faith than Jacob had been, for she called herself an agnostic. Furthermore, while Jacob's Jewishness was integral, evident in everything he did and said, that was not true of Ginger. If asked to define herself, she would have said, "Woman, physician, workaholic, political dropout," and other things before finally remembering to add, "Jew." The only time Yiddish peppered her speech was when she was in trouble, when she was deeply worried or scared, as if on a subconscious level she felt those words possessed talismanic value, charms against misfortune and catastrophe.
        "Running through the streets, dropping your groceries, forgetting where you are, afraid when there's no reason to be afraid, acting like a regular farmishteh, " she said disdainfully to her reflection. "People see you behaving like that, they'll think for sure you're a shikker, and people don't go to doctors whore drunkards. Nu?"
        The talismanic power of the old words worked a little magic, not much but enough to bring color to her cheeks and soften the stark look in her eyes. She stopped shivering, but she still felt chilled.
        She washed her face, brushed her silver-blond hair, and changed into pajamas and a robe, which was her usual ensemble for a typically self-indulgent Tuesday. She went into the small spare bedroom that she used as a home office, took the well-thumbed Taber's Cyclopedic Medical Dictionary from the bookshelf, and opened it to the F listings.
        Fugue.
        She knew what the word meant, though she did not know why she had come in here to consult the dictionary when it could tell her nothing new. Maybe the dictionary was another talisman. If she looked at the word in cold print, it would cease to have any power over her. Sure. Voodoo for the overeducated. Nevertheless, she read the entry: fugue (fyug) [L. fuga, flight]. Serious personality dissociation. Leaving home or surroundings on impulse. Upon recovering from the fugue state there usually is loss of memory for actions occurring while in the state.
        She closed the dictionary and returned it to the shelf.
        She had other reference volumes that could provide more detailed information about fugues, their causes and significance, but she decided not to pursue the matter. She simply could not believe her transient attack had been a symptom of a serious medical problem.
        Maybe she was under too much stress, working too hard, and maybe the overload had led to that one, isolated, transient fugue. A two- or three-minute blank. A little warning. So she would continue taking off every Tuesday and would try to knock off work an hour earlier each day, and she would have no more problems.
        She had worked very hard to be the doctor that her mother had hoped she would be, to make something special of herself and thereby honor her sweet father and the long-dead but well-remembered and desperately missed Swede. She had made many sacrifices to come this far. She had worked more weekends than not, had forgone vacations and most other pleasures. Now, in only six months, she would finish her residency and establish a practice of her own, and nothing would be allowed to interfere with her plans. Nothing was going to rob her of her dream.
        Nothing.
        It was November 12.
        

    3.
        

    Elko County, Nevada
        
        Ernie Block was afraid of the dark. Indoor darkness was bad, but the darkness of the outdoors, the vast blackness of night here in northern Nevada, was what most terrified Ernie. During the day he favored rooms with several lamps and lots of windows, but at night he preferred rooms with few windows or even no windows at all because sometimes it seemed to him that the night was pressing against the glass, as if it were a living creature that wanted to get in at him and gobble him up. He obtained no relief from drawing the drapes, for he still knew the night was out there, waiting for its chance.
        He was deeply ashamed of himself. He did not know why he had recently become afraid of the dark. He just was.
        Millions of people shared his phobia, of course, but nearly all of them were children. Ernie was fifty-two.
        On Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, he worked alone in the motel office because Faye had flown to Wisconsin to visit Lucy, Frank, and the grandkids. She would not be back until Tuesday. Come December, they intended to close up for a