A flight attendant came out into the terminal with him, helping him with his walker and his small bag. A man at the gate held up a sign with his name on it. So Peter Myers had been as good as his word, Andrew thought. Here was the driver of the car to take him to Fentrice’s house. They headed down one of the main highways leading out of Chicago. He had dozens of questions spanning sixty years, everything from what had happened backstage at the Paramount to whether Fentrice could truly speak with the dead. He had hoped to arrange his thoughts during the drive; instead he found himself fighting against sleep. He woke as the car stopped, his heart pounding. “Here we are,” the driver said. Where? Andrew thought, panicked. And where was Bess? The driver went to the trunk and took out his bag and walker, giving him enough time to remember where he was, what he had to do. He made his way slowly to the front door and knocked. An old woman in black answered. “Andrew Dodd,” the woman said.
