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the foreman raised his left arm and pointed at his wristwatch.
    Or he started to, because before the man could complete the gesture, Tom shifted his line of sight and, looking straight ahead, ignored him.

Six
    The sun was already behind the surrounding high hills when Tom exited the machine shop just after five and started across the poorly lit parking lot, covered from head to boots with a fine, metallic dust that turned his dark hair and full beard prematurely gray.
    And made him look more than a little like a ghost.
    Inside his truck, he texted Stella to let her know that he was on his way, then started the motor and turned on the heater. Before he could even shift into gear, Stella responded.
     
    Meet you in the shower.
     
    Canaan Village, in Connecticut’s isolated northwest corner, was barely a stopover on Route 7 as it wound through the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains. All of three blocks long, with a single traffic light. Unchanged, more or less, since the end of the Second World War.
    The last of the truly small towns.
    No street cameras, a small police force, and an insular population—these were just some of the reasons why Tom had chosen to end his years of roaming here.
    Steering his truck into the narrow alley that led to the small parking lot behind Stella’s building, Tom pulled into his space, climbed out of his truck, and locked the door. He moved back through the alley on foot and stepped out onto the open sidewalk.
    Main Street was busy—well, busy for Canaan. It was a Friday, though, and despite the colder-than-usual November evening, a number of townspeople were out.
    The only restaurant in town had already begun to fill up. The second-run movie theater, its grand marquee framed with blinking yellow lights, was, like the town itself, something out of another era.
    By eleven at the latest, however, the town would be all but closed up, the only foot traffic beneath their windows being a handful of moviegoers leaving the last showing of the night.
    After that the town would come to a complete stop, silence and stillness settling in till morning.
    Unlocking the street door, Tom entered the narrow stairwell and began to climb the steep steps toward the only door above.
    Before he was halfway up, his phone vibrated once again. Five vibrations, then five more.
    Drawing his phone from his pocket, Tom saw on the display the same unfamiliar number that had called twice already.
    He stood there for a moment, staring at it.
    Stella had no doubt heard the street door open and close and was waiting for him to climb the stairs and enter their apartment.
    She was likely wondering why it was taking him longer than usual to do so.
    Still, Tom lingered.
    If he answered and the caller was a telemarketer, then he could forget the whole thing. It would be the same if someone had simply misdialed.
    But if it wasn’t either of those?
    If it was the call he had sworn he would answer?
    The call that could potentially turn his quiet life upside down.
    Yet, if this were that call, the fact that it was coming from a number unrecognizable to Tom meant that it was contrary to protocol.
    Of course, that number could have been abandoned for a variety of reasons. But there was a protocol for that, too.
    If I change phones, Carrington had instructed, I will text you a confirmation code from my new number.
    Tom had received no such text.
    He had, in fact, heard nothing at all from Carrington since the night he’d passed on the lucrative contract Carrington had offered him.
    Walked away from more money than he could easily spend and began his years of drifting.
    Drifting that eventually led him to Stella.
    No, this isn’t that call, Tom decided. It can’t be.
    And more important, he didn’t want it to be.
    Those days were behind him.
    In terms of years as well as miles traveled.
    He powered down his phone, pocketed it, and resumed climbing the steep stairs.
    Reaching the door at the top, he thought only of the woman waiting