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understand, he said. I can’t help you. I know nothing about my poems. I don’t understand them at all. The only thing I know for certain is where they come from. I’ll share that with you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
    On hearing Andrews’ words, it was — for Baddeley — as if a distant star had entered the living room. Did he want to know the source of Andrews’ poetry? Yes, he most certainly did.
    â€“ Thank you, Mr. Andrews. You don’t know how much it would mean if you helped me understand where the poems come from.
    For the first time, Avery Andrews smiled.
    â€“ They come from God, he said.
    â€“ Oh ..., said Baddeley. They come from God.
    He did not hide his disappointment.
    â€“ I believe it’s God, said Andrews. But I’ve never asked. I’ve been too busy taking things down. You can decide for yourself. It would have been difficult for Baddeley to say which aspect of this moment shook him most. Was it the change in Andrews’ tone, from bitter to ... something else? Or was it Andrews’ strange offer to show him how the poems came “from God”? With creative types, there was always the possibility of madness, but Andrews’ poetry had always seemed to Baddeley so sane and clear that the idea the poet himself was mad had not once — not in all the readings and re-readings — occurred to him.
    Baddeley assumed Andrews would invite him to his desk, to the place where inspiration touched him and then lecture him about creativity. He did not imagine that Andrews would take him to see the “god” in question. But it appeared that’s what Andrews intended to do. They walked to King and from there they took the streetcar.
    â€“ I prefer to walk, said Andrews. But I’m tired.
    And he paid Baddeley’s fare.
    Where’s this madman taking me? Baddeley wondered. But he went anyway. Avery Andrews was determined to show him something and Baddeley’s love for Andrews’ work was sufficient to spur him on. But how strange genius was! Like something from a world where they breathe iridium.
    As they approached Bathurst, the Wheat Sheaf tavern looking gothic in the silvery afternoon, Andrews spoke.
    â€“ So, you want to be a poet, he said.
    â€“ I don’t have the talent to be a poet, answered Baddeley. I only wish I could write the poetry you write. It would ...
    Andrews cut him off.
    â€“ I wanted to be a novelist , he said. I’ve always hated poetry. They got off the streetcar at Bathurst, and Baddeley, alert in the company of Avery Andrews, looked up at the world. In one distance, the city rose to a craggy peak of metal, cement, and glass. In another, it was the lake that seemed to rise, like the inside of a glinting, grey-green cup. Behind them was the Parkdale from which they’d come.
    â€“ We’ll walk from here, said Andrews.
    Which they did, going wordlessly north, until they came to the Western.
    We’re going to Radiography 11 A , Baddeley thought, alarmed, but they went, rather, to the fifth floor of the north wing. As they left the elevator, Avery Andrews stood still a moment before moving towards Ward 55 A .
    Now, disappearance generally moves along a line from “done with mirrors” to “sudden drop.” The suddenness of a disappearance is, of course, part of what makes it uncanny. And if, on entering the room, Avery Andrews had disappeared in any of the “usual” ways, Baddeley would have been dismayed and, no doubt, frightened. But as the two went into Ward 55 A , Andrews was absorbed by the room. It was as if the man were a streak of ink blotted up, his disappearance taking a full five seconds: time enough for Baddeley to wonder what was happening; time enough for him to realize he was alone in the same room he had entered in the hospital’s basement — thirty feet by thirty feet by thirty feet, white. More than that, it was now obvious to