Dirk sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. He had forgotten to lower the blinds the night before and the morning sun is sharp.

He pushes the blanket off the side of the bed and puts his feet on the floor. It’s cold. He pads around for his old slippers and finds one then the other; the second was hiding beneath his bed.

Standing too quickly, he has to check himself. He has the edge of a headache. The usual excuse, too much drink. He blinks a few times, regains his balance, and walks around the bed to check the window. One of the panes is foggy. A cracked seal. Must replace, he thinks. His housecoat is at the foot of the bed. He swings his arms into the sleeves.

The second-floor hallway is dark but the light from the living room glows up the stairs. The curtains are open. The park grass is an early-morning green. It’s not yet in full splendour. Still waking up, like Dirk.

The front door, the vestibule door. Morning air. The paper, of course, is on the lowest step. One of these days the delivery man, or woman, or whoever, could get the paper to the middle steps, or even the higher steps. Or, even, the top step. Save Dirk’s back just a little. Or he could cancel the paper. He only scans the headlines and reads the odd letter to the editor.

He throws the paper on the island and shakes the kettle. Enough water for two. Onto the stove, then. Knob to max.

Housecoat half-open, he surveys the mess. Plates on the counter. Trays in the sink. Chairs pulled from the table. He could go on, but he’d just be avoiding it. The thing he saw when opening the front door. The black leather bag on the tile. An overnighter.

From where he’s standing, beside the stove, he sees something familiar sticking out the top of the bag. In fact, he thinks he knows what it is. Thinks? Is sure. The Great Janini. Got it off a shop in Den Bosch and gave it to Jan, in grade ten. Could it be the same, the original? Wouldn’t that be something. There are other things in the bag besides the rolled-up poster. Dirk can make out the edges of envelopes, the corners of colour photos. Bengal tigers, he thinks. Louis Napoleon the Third.

He tests the kettle by touch. Heating, but with the momentum of a boulder rolling uphill. He shakes the useless knob.

A part of him wants to open the bag. Wanted to the moment he recognized the poster. Turn it upside down and give it a shake. The other part, unsure of Jan’s intentions, waits by the stove for the water to boil. What’s another five minutes after so long? Give it time. Give him time. Patience, he says to himself. Even if patience is not his forte. Forte, a kind of pun.

Dirk touches the side of the kettle again. He doubleknots the cord of his housecoat. He looks over the dead end of the street, and makes himself into the kind of person who patiently waits.