"Something changed hers. She was going to do it, tell me. Then she decided not to. Then she told me why. Told me a story." It was Hollis’s turn to shrug. "Just like that, sometimes." She put her feet down on the carpet and stood, stretching. Walked to the shelf, where the dart was centered perfectly, an instant and quite convincing Dadaist assemblage, in one deep orbit of the rectilinear ebony head. When she tried to pull it out, the head moved toward the edge of the shelf. "That’s really in there." She steadied the sculpture with her left hand, twisting the dart out with her right.