A man got out of the SUV.

He was around forty, with a short dark beard and a little bit of gray in it. He was wearing a quarter-zip sweater and jeans. He looked like a normal guy. A guy who coached Little League. A guy who’d help you jump your car in a parking lot.

He opened the back door and pulled out a grocery bag. A long loaf of bread was sticking out of the top.

Then he turned around, and I saw his face clearly.

He was the same man from the pillow.

I sat in my car with my hands on the steering wheel.

I could leave. I could just drive away right now. I could go home and wait for Claire to get back from work and say, Hey, funny thing happened today, and she’d laugh and explain it, and everything would be fine.

There’s an explanation, I told myself. There’s always an explanation.

But I’d seen that mole beside her eyebrow.

I got out of the car.

I crossed the street. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I kept my hands where he could see them. I didn’t want him to think I was some lunatic.

Which, to be fair, I kind of was.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

He turned around, holding his grocery bag. He looked at me with the careful look you give a stranger who’s walking up your driveway.

“Is that your car?” I said, pointing at the SUV.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Can I help you?”

I took a breath.

“I know this sounds crazy,” I said. “But the woman on the pillow in your back window. That’s my wife.”

He looked at the car. At the pillow propped against the back glass.

Then he looked back at me.

“Your wife?”

“Yes,” I said. “Her name’s Claire.”

All the color drained out of his face.

I’ve seen people go pale before. In my job, I see it a lot. A patient stands up too fast, or a doctor says something they didn’t want to hear. But I’d never seen it happen like this. It was like somebody had pulled a plug, and everything just drained down and out of him.

“Say her name again,” he said quietly.

“Claire.”

He took a step backward. His heel hit the edge of the driveway, and he almost stumbled.

“That’s impossible,” he said. “Claire told me she’s single.”

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

A kid on a bike rode past on the sidewalk, ringing his bell. A dog was barking a few houses down. Somebody was raking leaves.

The man was staring at me. I was staring at him.

Then, very slowly, he bent down and set the grocery bag on the driveway. The loaf of bread tipped over sideways.

He straightened up.

“My name’s Adrian,” he said. “I think you need to come inside.”