The Barker Street Regulars

for wooden contraptions, for any break in the uniformity of board after board. They found none. On inspiration, I dropped to the ground in the hope of finding a bluestone walk, a series of flagstones, or anything else that might mark a path to the gate. The grass ran right up to the fence. I hadn’t actually seen a gate on this side. I’d just assumed that there must be one here. In fact, there was no gate.
    Annoyance with myself. Mild claustrophobia. No big deal. Avoiding the lights of the alcove, we’d circle around below the terrace. Then we’d head for the gate between the house and the garage, the gate that was definitely there. For the first time ever, I regretted the whiteness and prominence of Rowdy’s beautiful tail. I was supposed to be able to do anything with dogs, wasn’t I? There was no way to persuade him to carry his tail down. No, he was going to wave it over his back like a big white flag. And Ceci was expecting a ghostly dog. Enough of this inching along, I decided. We’d just get out fast. I was impatient anyway. At best, Ceci would be delighted to catch sight of her Simon. At worst, she’d be disappointed that he’d fled. So, Rowdy and I would run a little downhill, dash across the yard below the terrace, bolt uphill, and sprint through the gate, down the driveway, onto Upper Norwood Road, and away from this all-too-securely fenced yard.
    I had no way to foresee what would go wrong with the plan. The night Kimi and I had been here with Hugh and Robert, no one had mentioned anything about motion sensors. Ceci had once referred to her neighbors’ alarm systems and said that she didn’t have one. Furthermore, only minutes ago, Rowdy and I had made our way from Lower Norwood to the spot by the French doors. In search of the nonexistent gate, we’d gone back and forth along the wooden fence without triggering anything.
    But we hadn’t put a foot or a paw in the area directly in front of the terrace. When we did, the powerful lights mounted high on the house suddenly flooded the terrace with what felt like a tidal wave of foggy illumination that rushed directly downhill at us. It didn’t lap at my feet or Rowdy’s paws. Before we could escape, the light engulfed us. And as it did, a French door banged open and Ceci flew out screaming piteously for Simon. Expecting to see her dog, she saw him in his entirety in Rowdy’s white tail, and she took in nothing else. Listening to her call her dog’s name—“Simon! Simon!”—I again shared Ceci’s longing for the impossible reunion. This time, I envisioned a bank of fog that would suddenly weave itself around Rowdy. Seconds later, after a rapid metamorphosis, the misty cocoon would open to reveal a huge black Newfoundland who would run to his mistress, cover her with slobbery kisses, and let her hold him, warm and young, in her loving arms. Rowdy wouldn’t have minded. Neither would I, provided that I could immediately have had my own dog back.
    The lights and the fantasy slowed me. Fighting off a massive startle reflex, I tried to stick to my plan of getting to Upper Norwood Road. I was a half century younger than Ceci, I reminded myself. Rowdy and I were in good shape. We could beat Ceci to the gate and sprint off into the mist. But instead of making directly for her spectral dog, Ceci astutely headed for his apparent destination; she didn’t dash down the steps from the terrace, but hustled along the path toward the gate between the house and the garage. Of course! The real Simon had probably learned to enter the house through the kitchen. Ceci was exactly the kind of person who keeps a monogrammed towel at the back door for wiping a dog’s muddy paws. Rowdy and I were taking Simon’s route. If we kept going, we’d run directly into Ceci. I had no choice. Turning tail, I started downhill toward the iron gate to Lower Norwood Road.
    For the first few steps, Rowdy and I chased our own shadows. Mine was an amorphous lump. Rowdy’s incorporeal self was more interesting than mine. So what else is new? His body was half its usual length, his ears twice their normal height. Bounding ahead of us, the shadow Rowdy was a hefty fox. When we passed beyond the area illuminated by the floodlights, our phantom selves vanished. Nothing appeared to replace them. Heading downhill, we were somewhere to the right of the bluestone walk that led to the iron gate. Rowdy’s white tail must still have been visible. To our left and behind us, shoes