There was a plane crash out in the field by the highway yesterday morning. I saw it happen. The plane circled and went down fast. Then from my bedroom window I could see a pillar of white smoke rising on the pale day.

I hurried downstairs. In the kitchen, Mrs. Healy was cooking eggs for Jim and Abdul, two of the other boarders. Abdul was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper and jiggling his knee. Jim was pouring from an eighth bottle of Popov into a glass of orange juice. The radio on the counter next to the toaster was playing 1030 WBZ Weather On The Sixes.

"Mrs. Healy," I said, "Can I get the key to the basement?"

She continued to cook the eggs, working them in the pan with the spatula.

"Mrs. Healy," I said.

"Her hearing aids have apparently failed her this morning," said Abdul, turning a page of his paper. The paper this morning was the Boston Globe. Abdul occasionally lifted one from one of the neighborhood's curb boxes, on the way back in from one of his nightly peregrinations.

Jim sipped his screwdriver and looked at the floor at my feet. "I have the key," he said.

"I need it," I said.

Jim looked at me. "After my eggs."

"I need it now," I said.