An old friend came to see me. This would not be unusual, except she had died fifteen years earlier.

Shortly before she died, I couldn’t stop thinking of Diane. That whole week, everywhere — waking, turning a corner, looking up in a bookstore at faces beyond the window — I saw Diane. After two days, I wrote her one of our biannual letters: Hello, Diane. I’m thinking of you. Hope you’re all right. Love, Gerald. — And some news to fill her in on the details you miss when you have a connection with someone 2,000 miles away.