WHEN I finished reading, my audience sat in awkward silence for a moment, until I said, “Please hold your applause until the author has completed the reading of all fifty episodes.” . . .

IN THE EVENING, I had one drink too many before dinner, and, after dinner, in the lounge, I began the countdown to my fiftieth birthday by reading the first installment of Dead Air. . . .

I STOOD AT THE WHEEL of the leaking launch, approaching the dock on Small’s Island and the end of my fiftieth year, throttling down, gauging the speed of my approach . . .

WHEN THINGS GO WRONG, I sometimes wish that I were someone else, somewhere else, living a different life. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you sometimes feel that way, too. In my case, . . .

WHEN WE GOT HOME, we let ourselves in, and the girls immediately started up the stairs. I hesitated. “Peter,” they whispered, one in each ear, tugging my arms, “come on.” “Wait here,” I said. “There’s something I have to do.”

BY THE TIME we reached the center of town, most of Babbington seemed to be there, drawn by the light of the fire or the sound of the sirens. . . .

I had no interest in what I was doing. I barely had the will to do what had to be done. To make myself do something, I did what I could do without thinking.

WE DIDN’T GO to the movies the following Friday. We had a falling-out instead. It began when I told Margot and Martha that I just had too much work to do. Martha ran her fingers over my lips and asked, “Why not ignore the drawings tonight and spend the evening with the originals?”