The Leftovers

voice, trusting him with a confession. “It’s just three years, but sometimes it feels like ages ago.”
    “A lifetime.” He lifted his mug, sniffed at the steam curling up from the liquid, then set it back down without taking a sip. “We were all living in a dreamworld.”
    “I look at pictures of my kids,” she said, “and sometimes I don’t even cry. I can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse.”
    Reverend Jamison nodded, but she could tell that he wasn’t really listening. After a moment, he reached down for something on the floor—it turned out to be the manila envelope he’d been holding in the driveway—and set it down on the countertop. Nora had forgotten all about it.
    “I brought you the new issue of my paper,” he said.
    “That’s okay.” She raised her hand in a gesture of polite refusal. “I really don’t—”
    “No.” There was a sharp note of warning in his voice. “You really do.”
    Nora stared dumbly at the envelope, which the Reverend was nudging toward her with the tip of his index finger. A strange sound came out of her mouth, something between a cough and a laugh.
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “It’s about your husband.” To his credit, he looked genuinely embarrassed. “I could’ve run it in the October issue, but I held it until after your speech.”
    Nora shoved the envelope back across the counter. She had no idea what secret it contained, and no desire to find out.
    “Please get out of my house,” she said.
    Reverend Jamison stood up slowly from his stool, as if his body really were full of wet cement. He stared regretfully at the envelope for a moment, then shook his head.
    “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m just the messenger.”
     

VOW OF SILENCE
    IN THE EVENING, AFTER DAILY Sustenance and the Hour of Self-Accusation, they reviewed the folders of the people they were hoping to shadow. In theory, of course, they were open to shadowing everyone, but certain individuals had been singled out for special attention, either because one of the Supervisors thought they were ripe for recruitment, or because a resident had made a Formal Request for increased surveillance. Laurie glanced at the folder in her lap: ARTHUR DONOVAN, age 56, 438 Winslow Road, Apt. 3. The photo stapled to the inside cover showed a completely ordinary middle-aged man—balding, big-bellied, scared to death—pushing an empty shopping cart through a parking lot, his comb-over dislodged by a stiff breeze. A divorced father of two grown children, Mr. Donovan worked as a technician for Merck and lived alone. According to the most recent entry on the log, Donovan had spent the previous Thursday night at home, watching television by himself. He must have done that a lot, because Laurie had never once laid eyes on him in all her nocturnal wanderings.
    Without bothering to recite the required silent prayer for Arthur Donovan’s salvation, she closed the folder and handed it to Meg Lomax, the new convert she was helping to train. Every night in Self-Accusation, Laurie took herself to task for this exact failing, but despite her repeated vows to do better, she kept bumping against the limits of her own compassion: Arthur Donovan was a stranger, and she couldn’t work up a whole lot of concern about what happened to him on Judgment Day. That was the sad truth, and there wasn’t much sense in pretending otherwise.
    I’m only human, she told herself. There’s not enough room in my heart for everyone.
    Meg, on the other hand, studied Donovan’s photo with a melancholy expression, shaking her head and clucking her tongue at a volume that would have been unacceptable for anyone but a Trainee. After a moment, she took out her notepad, scribbled a few words, and showed the message to Laurie.
    Poor man. He looks so lost.
    Laurie nodded briskly, then reached for the next file on the coffee table, resisting the urge to take out her notepad and remind Meg that she didn’t need to write down every single thought that passed through her head. It was something she’d figure out soon enough on her own. Everybody did, eventually, once the initial shock of not speaking wore off. It just took some people a little longer than others to realize how few words they needed to get by, how much of life they could negotiate in silence.
    There were twelve of them in the smoke-filled room, tonight’s contingent of Watchers, passing the folders in a clockwise direction. It was meant to be a solemn activity,