The manager of Precy's apartment just shook his head.

     “There's nobody to keep an eye on. She left last night.”

     “Left,” I said, “like gone for the night.”

     “Moved away. Somebody drove up with a U-Haul, seemed about twenty Filipinos jumped out, they carried everything into the truck. And I mean fast. They were finished inside of an hour.”

     “You sure they weren't burglars?”

     “She knocked on the door, gave me the key.”

     “Her security deposit—don't tell me you cut her a check right there.”

     “No. The management company has to do that. She gave me an address to send it.”

     He read the address from a folded slip of paper that he took out of his shirt. It was her lawyer's office.

     “But I don't think she's there,” he said. “You want to find her, you better be ready to swim or fly. Because you aren't driving and you sure as hell ain't walking.”

     “Where?”

     “I'm not saying for sure. But she was standing in the living room, writing out this address. The kids are with her and the older boy has got a pout on something fierce. I asked him why he was so upset, he said, ‘Mama told me, they don't have MTV in the province.’ “

     “You haven't been as forthcoming as I would've liked,” said Ted the psychotherapist. His voice dropped. “I know what you need. I know why you're here.” He sounded wheedling and conspiratorial. “I want to help. But you must help me, too.”

     “It's hard to be enthusiastic about proving how screwed-up I am.”

     “Hardly. You have had a trauma. I'm trying to substantiate it.”

     “Any way you want to put it.”