Then Anita, her face sweaty from dancing, says the words aloud: This isn't happening.
        Stay calm, I say in a low voice as I join the women by the rattan sofa. I squeeze Mary's elbow. We're going to be all right.
        When Mark steps over beside us, I see the gun for the first time. It's silver.
        Dis evahbody? the gunman's lips ask through the nylon, and I realize he's local.
        Everyone hesitates. Through the doorway to Mark's bedroom I can see Phil with his back to us, talking into the telephone. Mary squeezes my arm; we don't dare look at each other.
        Then the gunman turns and sees Phil. Ey, put dat down!
        OK, Phil says, and sets the phone back in its cradle. He raises his palms to show he has nothing in them, and turns slowly to face the doorway.
        You call da cops! the gunman accuses.
        It's OK, Phil pleads. I couldn't remember the address. They don't know where we are.
        I hold my breath as the gunman advances toward Phil. He shoves Phil aside and yanks the phone cord out of the wall.
        . . . and the world disconnects.

        “I had the police on the phone,” Phil is telling Sheyene. Through the glass doors behind his back the night is lit by a sprinkling of stars. “I was talking to them, and I just couldn't remember Mark's address.”
        From her spot on the sofa, Ann shakes her head and smiles. She's heard Phil tell the story many times, and knows not to interrupt at this point. Sheyene's reaction is different. She gives Phil a pained smile, then looks over at me. Her expression is sympathetic, innocent. She's listening to the story Phil is telling, not the story-within-the-story unfolding inside my head. When I feel myself begin to blush, I chime in: “We were all helpless at that point. But at the same time it didn't seem real, either. Everything was . . . slowed down.”
        A faint look of puzzlement—no, worry—flickers in Sheyene's eyes as I say these words. She has already learned how to read me. She knows tonight is more about the future than the past, and that I am searching for something. A prologue, perhaps. It just can't work, Dad, David told me more than a year ago. It is working, I replied. I won't ever be around her—never, he countered. But never is a long time. David is nineteen now, the man of the house-that-is-no-longer-my-house, and has begun to think about the future. After you're married, Dad, he has solemnly promised. After you're married, I'll come over and meet her.

                                7