The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr. Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that would not break my mother's heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was never sublime. Yes, by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a world-class pianist. Looking forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin himself, teaching others after a second-rate career? I would rather play in a bordello.
　　Over breakfast one morning, I opened with this gambit: "Mom, I don't think I'm going to get any better."
　　"Better than what?" she asked, whipping eggs.
　　"At the piano, at music. I think it's as far as I can go."
　　She poured the mess into a skillet, the eggs sizzling as they hit butter and hot iron, and said nothing while she stirred. She served me a plate of eggs and toast, and I ate them in silence. Coffee cup in hand, she sat across the table from me. "Henry," she said softly, wanting my attention. "Do you remember the day when you were a little boy and ran away from home?"
　　I did not, but I nodded in the affirmative between bites.
　　"It was a bright day and hot, hotter than Hades. I wanted a bath to cool off. The heat's one thing I can't get used to. And I asked you to mind Mary and Elizabeth, and you disappeared into the forest. Do you remember that?"
　　There was no way I could remember, but I nodded my head as I swallowed the last slug of orange juice.
　　"I put the girls to bed and came back down, but you were gone." Her eyes welled up as she recounted the experience. "We looked over hill and yon but couldn't find you. As the day wore on, I called your father to come home, and then we telephoned the police and the firemen, and we were all looking for you for hours, calling out your name into the night." She looked past me, as if reliving the experience in her mind's eye.
　　"Any more eggs, Mom?"
　　She waved her spoon toward the stove, and I helped myself. "When it grew dark, I grew afraid for you. Who knows what lives out in that forest? I knew a woman once in Donegal whose baby was stolen from her. She'd gone out to pick blackberries and left her child sleeping on a blanket on a bright summer day, and when she came back, the baby was gone, and they never did find it, poor thing, not a trace. All that remained was an impression left on the grass."
　　I peppered my eggs and dug in.
　　"I thought of you lost and wanting your mother, and I couldn't get to you, and I prayed to God that you'd come home. When they found you, it was like a second chance. Quitting would be throwing away your second chance, your God-given gift. It's a blessing and you should use your talent."
　　"Late for school." I mopped the plate clean with a heel of bread, kissed the top of her head, and exited. Before I made it down the front steps, I regretted not being more forceful. Most of my life has been ruled by indecision, and I am grateful when fate intercedes, relieving me from choice and responsibility for my actions.
　　By the time of the winter recital that year, just the sight and sound of the piano made my stomach churn. I could not disappoint my parents by quitting Mr. Martin altogether, so I pretended that all was well. We arrived early, at the concert hall, and I left my family at the door to find their seats while I moped about backstage. The folderol surrounding the recitals remained unchanged. In the wings of the theater, students milled about, mentally preparing for their turns, practicing their fingering on any flat surface. Mr. Martin paced among us, counting heads, reassuring the stage-frightened, the incompetent, and the reluctant. "You are my prize pupil," he said. "The best I've ever taught. The only real piano player in the whole bunch. Make them cry, Henry." And with that, he pinned a carnation on my lapel. He swirled and parted the curtains to the brightness of the footlights to welcome the assemblage. My performance was the grand finale, so I had time to duck out the back and smoke a Camel pinched from my fathers pack. A winter's night had fallen, clear and cold. A rat, startled by my presence in the alley, stopped and stared at me. I showed the vermin my teeth, hissed and glowered, but I could not scare it. Once upon a time, such creatures were terrified of me.
　　That frozen night, I felt entirely human and heartened at the thought of the warm theater. If this was to be my farewell performance, I resolved to give them something to remember me by. I moved like a whip, cracking the keys, thundering, floating, the right pressure on all the partial notes. Members of the audience began rising from their seats to lead the applause before the strings stopped humming. Enchanted, they showered their huzzahs, so much so that I almost forgot how much I hated the whole business. Backstage, Mr. Martin greeted me first, tears of joy in his eyes, squealing "Bravo," and then the other students, half of them barely masking their resentment, the other half consumed with jealousy, acknowledging with grudging graciousness that I had outshone their performances. In came the parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and assorted music lovers. They clumped around the players, but I drew the largest crowd, and I did not notice the woman in the red coat until most of the well-wishers had vanished.
　　My mother was wiping lipstick from my cheek with a wet handkerchief when the woman meandered into my peripheral vision. She appeared normal and pleasant, about forty years old. Her deep brown hair framed an intelligent face, but I was perplexed at the way her pale green eyes had fixed upon me. She stared, scrutinized, studied, and pondered, as if dredging up an inner mystery. She was an utter stranger to me.
　　"Excuse me," she said. "But you're Andrew Day?"
　　"Henry Day," I corrected her.
　　"Right, Henry. You play wonderfully."
　　"Thank you." I turned back to my parents, who intimated that they were ready to go.
　　Maybe she saw my profile, or perhaps the simple act of turning away set off something in her brain, but she gasped and drew her fingers to her mouth. "You're him," she said. "You're the little boy."
　　I squinted at her and smiled.
　　"You are the one I saw in the woods that night. On the road? With the deer?" She started to raise her voice. "Don't you remember? I saw you on the road with those other boys. It must have been eight or nine years ago by now. You're all grown up and everything, but you're that little boy, no doubt. I was worried about you."
　　"I don't know what you are talking about, ma'am." I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.
　　"It is you. I cracked my head on the dashboard when I hit the deer, and I thought you were a dream at first. You came out of the forest—"
　　I yelped a sound that hushed the room, a pure raw cry that startled everyone, myself included. I did not realize my capacity for such an inhuman noise still existed. My mother intervened.
　　"Let go of my son," she told her. "You're hurting his arm."
　　"Look, lady," I said, "I don't know you."
　　My father stepped into the middle of the triangle. "What is this all about?"
　　The woman's eyes flashed in anger. "I saw your boy. One night I was driving home from the country, and this deer jumped right onto the road in front of my car. I swerved to miss her, but I clipped her with my bumper. I didn't know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if I could help."
　　She shifted her attention from my father and began addressing me. "From the woods comes this boy, about seven or eight years old. Your son. And he startled me more than the deer did. Out of nowhere, walks right up to the deer like the most natural thing in the world; then he bent down to its mouth or nose or whatever you call it. Hard to believe, but he cupped his hand over her muzzle, and breathed. It was magic. The deer rolled off her side, unfolded her legs, stood, and sprang off. The most incredible thing that's ever happened to me."
　　I realized then that she had experienced an encounter. But I knew I had not seen her before, and while some changelings are willing to inspire wild animals, I never engaged in such foolishness.
　　"I got a real good look at the boy in my headlights," she said, "although not so good at his friends in the forest. It was you. Who are you really?"
　　"I don't know her."
　　My mother, riveted by her story, came up with an alibi. "It can't be Henry. Listen, he ran away from home when he was seven years old, and I didn't let him out of my sight for the next few years. He was never out by himself at night."
　　The intensity melted from the woman's voice, and her eyes searched for a sign of faith. "He looked at me, and when I asked him his name, he ran away. Since that night I've wondered ..."
　　M............