THAT NIGHT I read “Photographic Proof,” episode eleven of Dead Air, to a sizable Friday-night crowd (sizable, that is, for the time of year). . . .

“JEFFREY the realtor called to say that he’s bringing some prospects on Sunday,” Albertine said, “and he asked me whether we could do anything about the wildlife.”

I AWOKE feeling much better, even optimistic. I had slept the night through for the first time in weeks. . . .

“IS IT OKAY if I ask a question?” asked Alice. “Sure,” I said. “Questions are encouraged.” “Two questions, really.” “Okay.” “Was there a clam salad sandwich?”

THERE WERE NINE at my reading of episode ten of Dead Air, “Kap’n Klam’s Salad Sandwich,” since the tinkers made it off the roof safely and stayed to hear what I had to say, and Suki joined the group, too.

I SPENT THE DAY going around the hotel touching up the paint where leaks had stained the ceilings and in the thousand little places where the walls had taken a beating, and for quite a while I felt content, almost elated. Painting does that to me. . . .

LOU LINED SIX COCKTAIL GLASSES along the bar and filled them from a shaker. “Okay,” he said, “now if you don’t like this drink I want you please to at least give the appearance of enjoying it. . . .

THERE WERE SIX in my audience for the reading of the ninth episode from Dead Air, “The Wall of Happy Diners.” Elaine had returned, and she had brought with her a gray and cuddly couple, Alice and Clark, longtime friends of Lou’s. . . .

THIS WAS THE DAY of the funeral of the Big Tinker. The morning was gray, as it ought to be for a funeral. Clouds lay heavy over Babbington . . .

“LET’S OFFER A BONUS,” she said when we were in bed, “payable to the individual realtor who sells the place. Maybe it will get them to start bringing more people out here.” . . .