Something in Ralph switched off. Something that might have kept him open to the possibility of being destroyed. Vulnerable and hopeless. Like the vacuum silence that smothers all sound and feeling in a sealed vault.

"Huh? What?" Ralph heard without hearing.

"I can't hear you Alice."

The man on television being interviewed by the pink-faced reporter was about Ralph's age, fifty-five. He was crying.

"I got you the artichoke," he hollered over his shoulder. "Look in the bag."