For two days Martin remains in his apartment. He considers how little one is able to know of another's nature. He repeats this to himself, going over all atomic statements he has ever believed to be true and false once again. He opens the shades, closes them, changes bulbs, different switch combinations. He stands in places he thinks he has never stood before. He sits beneath the dining room table, looking up toward the walls.
His first venture outside is around ten o clock of a Wednesday evening, and he scours the downtown streets working out from the plant in a studious walking pattern; and at last, near the Coney Isle, he passes once, circles the block then turns and goes in. "Ret," he says, taking his usual place, back in the world. "What's going on."
