JUST BEFORE SEVEN A.M. on Sunday, an octopus walks into the station. Well, it is actually a woman dressedlike an octopus, but when you see something like that, distinctions hardly matter. She has tears running downher face and holds a Pekingese dog in her multiple arms. “You have to help me,” she says, and that’s when Iremember: this is Mrs. Zegna, whose house was gutted by a kitchen fire a few days ago.

She plucks at her tentacles. “This is the only clothing I have left. A Halloween costume. Ursula. It’s beenrotting in a U-Store-It locker in Taunton with my Peter Paul and Mary album collection.”

I gently sit her down in the chair across from my desk. “Mrs. Zegna, I know your house is uninhabitable—”

“Uninhabitable? It’s wrecked!”

“I can put you in touch with a shelter. And if you like, I can speak to your insurance company to expeditethings.”

She lifts one arm to wipe her eyes, and eight others, drawn by strings, rise in unison. “I don’t have homeinsurance. I don’t believe in living my life expecting the worst.”

I stare at her for a moment. I try to remember what it is like to be taken aback by the very possibility ofdisaster.

When I get to the hospital, Kate is lying on her back, holding tight to a stuffed bear she’s had since she wasseven. She’s hooked up to one of those patient-managed morphine drips, and her thumb pushes down on thebutton every now and then, although she is fast asleep.

One of the chairs in the room folds out into a cot with a mattress thin as a wafer; this is where Sara is curled.

“Hey,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Where’s Anna?”

“Still sleeping like only a kid can. How was Kate’s night?”

“Not bad. She was in a little pain between two and four.”

I sit down on the edge of her cot. “It meant a lot to Anna, you calling last night.”

When I look into Sara’s eyes, I see Jesse—they have the same coloring, the same features. I wonder if Saralooks at me and thinks of Kate. I wonder if that hurts.

It is hard to believe that once, this woman and I sat in a car and drove the entire length of Route 66, andnever ran out of things to say. Our conversations now are an economy of facts, full of blue chip details andinsider information.

“Do you remember that fortune-teller?” I ask. When she looks at me blankly, I keep talking. “We were out inthe middle of Nevada, and the Chevy ran out of gas…and you wouldn’t let me leave you in the car while Ilooked for a service station?”

Ten days from now, when you’re still walking in circles, they’re going to f............