Driving home she gets it suddenly, all-whole, surely as if it's tied at the end of a ribbon she spools absent-mindedly from her pocket; the picture she's had of it, widening, lets in a half-done crossword-puzzle, used candles, a high-school- reunion letter - a Place shining real as her hand. She's a lowland topography to her life, she knows: something bright, moss-pungent and utterly-trodden. But this, she thinks, is new - then: Oh. Oh my. Like missing a stair in the dark; she sees: old Bible under the floorboards, a dishrag hung and forgotten out the back window, and she could maybe wear that crotchless thing with the garters. God, she thinks, must've been the kids' last birthday. And, after, like a finger missing. She'd kept opening drawers, always expecting it. A friend of hers says, Lord, a man never lost something without thinking the word new; it's a joke for them, a soiled jumper in the bushes. So. Then she's tucked, like laundry wearing rumpled laundry, in the old crotchless, scallops on the stove and him coming home. This is absurd, she laughs. Then after a moment: This is it. Last chance. The thing she's most sure of: that night her hand wakes her plunging in the crack behind the side-table - for what? she can't remember. Then she says, Oh. Of course. It isn't here.