In the Country of Last Things by Paul Auster

said. “After I bring William back, I’ll come in here and remind you of this conversation.”
    Bogat was about to say something more, but then he seemed to think better of it. He let out a sigh, slapped his palms softly against the desk, and stood up from his chair. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m not against you. It’s just that I think you’re making a mistake. There’s a difference, you know.”
    “Maybe there is. But it’s still wrong to do nothing. People need time, and you shouldn’t jump to conclusions before you know what you’re talking about.”
    “That’s the problem,” Bogat said. “I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
    At that point I think we shook hands, or perhaps we just stared at each other across the desk. Then he walked me through the press room and out to the elevators in the hall. We waited there in silence, not even looking at each other. Bogat rocked back and forth on his heels, humming tunelessly under his breath. It was obvious that he was already thinking about something else. As the doors opened and I stepped into the elevator, he said to me wearily, “Have a nice life, little girl.” Before I had a chance to answer him, the doors closed, and I was on my way down.
    In the end, that photograph made all the difference. I wasn’t even planning to take it with me, but then I packed it in with my things at the last minute, almost as an afterthought. At that point I didn’t know that William had disappeared, of course. I had been expecting to find his replacement at the newspaper office and begin my searchthere. But nothing went as planned. When I reached the third census zone and saw what had happened to it, I understood that this picture was suddenly the only thing I had left. It was my last link to William.
    The man’s name was Samuel Farr, but other than that I knew nothing about him. I had behaved too arrogantly with Bogat to ask for any details, and now I had precious little to go on. A name and a face, and that was all. With the proper sense and humility, I might have spared myself a good deal of trouble. Ultimately, I did meet up with Sam, but that had nothing to do with me. It was the work of pure chance, one of those bits of luck that fall down on you from the sky. And a long time passed before that happened—more time than I would like to remember.
    The first days were the hardest. I wandered around like a sleepwalker, not knowing where I was, not even daring to talk to anyone. At one point I sold my bags to a Resurrection Agent, and that kept me in food for an ample stretch, but even after I began working as a scavenger, I had no place to live. I slept outside in all kinds of weather, hunting for a different place to sleep every night. God knows how long this period lasted, but there’s no question that it was the worst, the one that came closest to doing me in. Two or three weeks minimum, perhaps as long as several months. I was so miserable that my mind seemed to stop working. I became dull inside, all instinct and selfishness. Terrible things happened to me then, and I still don’t know how I managed to live through it. I was nearly raped by a Tollist on the corner of Dictionary Place and Muldoon Boulevard. I stole food from an old man who tried to rob me one night in the atrium of the old Hypnotists’ Theatre—snatched the porridge right out of his hands and didn’teven feel sorry about it. I had no friends, no one to talk to, no one to share a meal with. If not for the picture of Sam, I don’t think I would have made it. Just knowing that he was in the city gave me something to hope for. This is the man who will help you, I kept telling myself, and once you find him, everything will be different. I must have pulled the photograph out of my pocket a hundred times a day. After a while, it became so creased and rumpled that the face was almost obliterated. But by then I knew it by heart, and the picture itself no longer mattered. I kept it with