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Howie held up a three-inch Kewpie. " And he was off and running. Bidding on the box of Kewpies started low. Gretchen watched with interest, because her turn was coming. She was fascinated by the speed with which Howie flew through the bidding process and the different ways the registered bidders had of alerting the auctioneer to their bids. She had sorted through the Kewpie dolls before the auction and noticed that most had been repaired in some way. Almost all were bad reproductions. Gretchen saw imperfections in the molded bodies, amateurishly shaped topknots, and tufts of babyish hair.

Blunderboo was her favorite of all the Rosie O'Neill designs. He was the clumsy Kewpie, always falling, tumbling, or rolling. Gretchen turned the three-inch doll upside down and examined the fake O'Neill mark on its feet, then studied the red heart label painted on its bare, chubby body. Why had Chiggy attempted to make her own Kewpies? Based on the woman's vast collection of dolls at the auction, her tastes ran more toward reproductions of rare antique dolls than the fairylike Kewpies. "I feel bad about the doll," Gretchen told Nina with genuine regret.

The pills prescribed by her physician ease the emotional pain of killing another human being, but they don't help her sleep. Nothing helps her sleep. She desperately needs to shut down and wake up later to find out that the accident has all been a bad dream. But that isn't going to happen. Her husband slides a protective arm around her waist. "It's all right," she says. But it isn't. She has replayed the accident how many times? Dozens? Millions? Everywhere she looks, she sees it again. The man's stunned face, the surprise registering in his eyes.