Three restless nights have gone by, and I’m still fixated on Terrance’s visit. I’m thinking about it, about him, too much. I have to just put it out of my mind. Forget about Terrance and OuterMore and the Installation. It’s mind over matter.

For now, it’s working. I’m getting better at applying my focus elsewhere. I don’t think Hen’s been as fortunate. She apologized after leaving dinner in such a huff, but it didn’t feel entirely sincere. I still said it was okay. Hen has a difficult time controlling her emotions. I’ve tried to ask her about it, but she gives me a one- or two-word answer and then deflects the topic.

That’s why it’s Hen I’m worried about, not me. I’ve reassured her that I’m not bothered. I try to help her, do whatever I can to alleviate her unease.

I’ve been noticing new things about her since Terrance’s last visit. Subtle stuff. She doesn’t seem herself. Something’s off. Last night I came into our room before bed and saw her standing at the window. She didn’t hear me, didn’t know I was there. She wasn’t doing anything. Her back was to me. She was staring outside, one hand against the window frame. We must have stood like that—me looking at her, her looking out the window—for more than a minute before I took another step, which she heard because the floor creaked and she turned around.

She walked over to me, took my hand, led me to bed. She took off my clothes, got on top of me. We had sex. It didn’t last long. When it was over she rolled off me and moved to her side of the bed without a word. She kept the sheet off her. She fell asleep. I didn’t. I stayed awake.

Good news for someone often means bad news for someone else. I wonder if the others on the short list are experiencing a similar domestic agitation, a ruffling of the feathers of routine. How many others are there? Where do they live? There’s so much Terrance hasn’t told us. There were so many questions I had, ones I’d prepared over the course of two long years, but then when he was there in front of me, my mind went blank.

If Hen’s worried about my leaving, I get it. I would understand that, if she’d say it. I just want her to be honest with me. Open. To talk. To explain how she feels. Because I’m not good at this. I can’t guess. And we need to do this together, to get through this together, not separately.

I know she’s quiet by nature, reserved, understated. But if she told me more, opened up, I could help her. I’m sure of it.