Motley stood in his pajamas at the kitchen window, waiting for his egg to boil. Everything was quiet now, the other houses dark, the moon still high. But they would be out again soon enough, all the children. It was a wonderful neighborhood for children, everyone said.

Due early at the plant, Motley sipped his instant coffee, broke his soft-boiled egg over a slice of toast. He swallowed a vitamin pill, downed a glass of orange juice, cut the egg-soaked toast into squares. He stared at the bare wall beside the humming refrigerator while he sat and chewed. Then he padded in his slippers through the dark hall to shave, flicking on, as he passed the stereo, Chopin.

Motley lived alone. At 42, he had never married. A scholarly man, tall, with thinning black hair, he spent much of his spare time listening to music, reading, keeping up in his field. He was a chemist. There were bookcases and stacks of magazines and journals everywhere in his house; in the living room were shelves and shelves of records, racks of tapes. In his bedroom, he kept his winter clothes in one closet, his summer clothes in another. His dirty laundry, which he washed regularly every Saturday morning, went into a big wicker basket by the bathroom. Motley had grown so comfortable here that he couldn't imagine living anywhere else.