Three minutes later, I heard the high-wailing siren of the ambulance turning onto our street. I went to the door and watched as the driver double-parked and got out with the two additional paramedics who had ridden in the back. A bright red Fire Rescue vehicle pulled up behind, spilling EMT personnel as well. The flashing red lights were oddly syncopated, a stuttering of red. I held the door open, admitting three young men and two women in blue shirts with patches on their sleeves. The first guy carried their gear, probably ten to fifteen pounds’ worth, including an EKG monitor, defibrillator, and pulse oximeter. One of the women toted an ALS jump bag, which I knew contained drugs and an intubation set.

I took a moment to close and lock the back door, and then waited on the front porch while the paramedics went about their business. This was a job where they spent much of their time on their knees. Through the open door I could hear the comforting murmur of questions and Gus’s tremulous replies. I didn’t want to be present when the time came to move him. One more of his yelps and they’d be tending to me.

Henry joined me a moment later and the two of us retreated to the street. Neighbors were scattered along the sidewalk, attentive in the wake of this undefined emergency. Henry chatted with Moza Lowenstein, who lived two houses down. Since Gus’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, we could talk among ourselves without any sense of disrespect. It took an additional fifteen minutes before Gus was loaded into the back of the ambulance. By then, he was on an IV line.

Henry consulted with the driver, a hefty dark-haired man in his thirties, who told us they were taking Gus to the emergency room at Santa Teresa Hospital, referred to fondly by most of us as “St. Terry’s.”

Henry said he’d follow in his car. “Are you coming?”

“I can’t. I have to go on to work. Will you call me later?”

“Of course. I’ll give you a buzz as soon as I know what’s going on.”

I waited until the ambulance departed and Henry had backed out of his drive before I got in my car.

On the way into town, I stopped off at an attorney’s office and picked up an Order to Show Cause notifying a noncustodial spouse that a modification of child support was being sought. The ex-husband was a Robert Vest, whom I was already fondly thinking of as “Bob.” Our Bob was a freelance tax consultant working from his home in Colgate. I checked my watch, and since it was only a few minutes after ten, I headed to his place in hopes of catching him at his desk.

I found his house and passed at a slightly slower speed than normal, then circled back and parked on the opposite side of the street. Both the driveway and the carport were empty. I put the papers in my bag, crossed, and climbed his front steps to the porch. The morning newspaper lay on the mat, suggesting that Bobby wasn’t yet up. Might have had a late night. I knocked and waited. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, more emphatically. Still no response. I edged to my right and took a quick peep in the window. I could see past his dining room table and into the darkened kitchen beyond. The place had that glum air of emptiness. I returned to my car, made a note of the date and time of the attempt, and went on to the office.

3 SOLANA

Six weeks after the Other left her job, she gave notice herself. This was a graduation day of sorts. It was time to say good-bye to her work as a lowly nurse’s aide and advance her career as a newly credentialed LVN. Though no one else knew it, there was now a new Solana Rojas in the world, living a parallel life in the same community. Some people saw Santa Teresa as a small town, but Solana knew she could go about her business without much risk of running into her namesake. She’d done it before with surprising ease.

She’d acquired two new credit cards in Solana Rojas’s name, substituting her own street address. To her way of thinking, her use of the Other’s license and credit wasn’t fraudulent. She wouldn’t dream of charging merchandise that she didn’t intend to pay for. Far from it. She took care of her bills the minute they came in. She might not cover the entire outstanding balance, but she was prompt about writing her newly printed checks and mailing them off. She couldn’t afford to be in arrears, because she knew if an account was turned over to a collection agency, her duplicity might come to light. This would never do. There must be no black marks against the Other’s name.

The only tiny snag she could see was that the Other’s cursive was distinct and her signature impossible to duplicate. Solana had tried, but she couldn’t master the slapdash way of it. She worried that some overzealous store clerk would compare her signature to the miniature signature reproduced on the Other’s license. To avoid questions arising, she carried a wrist brace in her purse and strapped it around her right wrist before she shopped. This allowed her to claim carpal tunnel syndrome, which netted her sympathy instead of suspicion at her clumsy approximation of the Other’s signature.