I knock three short raps, wait, then two, a pause, then one. The door opens into a thin dim light, a slit of face, a single dark eye.

"I am looking for my husband," I say.

The face says nothing.

"He came here last night, after supper. But he has not returned."

"What's his name?" The voice is so quiet I lean my head closer.

I whisper his name into the dim strip of light, as if in a confessional.

"He'll be back tonight. Go home." The eye disappears. The door shuts.