Ernst Spengler was alone in his attic apartment, getting ready to throw himself out the already-open window, when the telephone rang. Once, twice, three times, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Ernst answered.

Mylia lived on the first floor at 77 Moltke Street. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, she was thinking about the essential words in her life. Pain, she thought, pain is an essential word.

She’d already had one operation, then another, four operations in all. And now this—this echo deep in the center of her body. Being sick, she told herself, is a test, a way to teach yourself how to endure pain. Or else: it’s a manifestation of your desire to get closer to Almighty God. And churches are closed at night.

Four in the morning on May 29th. Mylia couldn’t sleep. The pain was constant, coming from her stomach—or maybe lower. Where exactly was it coming from? Maybe from her womb. The only thing she knew for sure was that it was four in the morning and she hadn’t slept a bit. She couldn’t close her eyes because she was afraid of dying.

She got up. Mylia was thin but strong. She didn’t waste time on trivialities. (She was always telling herself: don’t waste time on trivialities.) She paid attention to things. She knew she had only a few years left to live. The disease had already begun its work: we’ll be together for a few years, then the disease will stay and I’ll go. She focused her energy on whatever time she had left in her body, and directed it—her energy—like a rolling pin. Poised to roll. No more trivialities. Only spend your time on necessities—ignore the insubstantial; the only things that matter are the essentials, the things that really change you, that make everything different, the things that strike you down. Everything should be that way—every single thing you do each day should feel powerful, significant. Mylia looked at herself in the mirror. I’m alive and I’ve made a mistake. To be sick is to have made a mistake. Maybe even a diabolical mistake. But: sickness does change you. Sickness makes everything different.

So, that day, at four in the morning, Mylia decided to leave her house. The pain hit her differently at night—it was more of a gradual sensation, like watching some kind of chemical goo creeping down a slight incline, its progress barely perceptible to the eye. Day and night aren’t on a level playing field. There’s a bit of a slant.

Focusing on her pain, in that nonspecific place—somewhere between her stomach and her womb—Mylia went outside, looking for a church.

There’s a bum, and he’s a little startled. He says he doesn’t know. A church? Don’t you know what time is it? he asks. You’re going to get yourself mugged. You shouldn’t be out looking for a church, you should be looking for a cop to walk you home. Why are you even out at this time of night? I could mug you myself!

Mylia smiled and walked on. Her pain was more urgent than their conversation.

I don’t want the police, I want a church. Are they really all closed at this hour?

Her feet felt like they weren’t part of her. It was clear, though, that her shoes—flat shoes, men’s shoes—still went wherever her feet wanted them to. Bones and muscles have a will of their own. Not shoe leather. Shoes must obey, without question. Yes—shoes, obey, Mylia muttered. All matter can be divided into two basic categories: things that move according to their own will, and those that must obey without question (you could say much the same thing about people). Shoes were an example of pure obedience, and as such, they disgusted her. Revolting: the subservience of the material world in relation to man. Not even a dog was as submissive as a shoe.

And yet, there was no possibility of dialogue between the two camps . . . not “enemy camps,” really, since this would suggest that there might be some likelihood of their going to war, meeting on the field of battle, marshaling their various forces . . . no, these weren’t two predators pecking at each other in order to secure some choice piece of territory, but absolute passivity on one side confronted by pure energy on the other . . . an energy that’s just as likely to be destructive as creative, but which, in any case, never stops evolving. No, we aren’t the sort of stuff that just sits around and waits, Mylia told herself, walking with determination toward a church.

“The church is closed. Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s almost five in the morning. You shouldn’t be out here anyway. This is a bad neighborhood at night. It’s dangerous.”

Mylia felt like laughing in the man’s face, good intentions and all. Dangerous! Dangerous for someone as sick as her? Dying from a disease down deep inside her, with only a year or two left? Death was already closing in on her—now she wanted danger, something to excite her, wanted to feel something new. She wanted to tell him, this man, he seemed to be a caretaker or something, yes, she was tempted to say, Look, if it’s dangerous, then it’s not a bad neighborhood at all! At least things can actually happen here!

Danger raises questions, calls for immediate answers. What I need is a good question, Mylia thought. A specific question, a question that’ll force me to come up with a meaningful response. My sickness isn’t an old wolf—it won’t run away at the first sign of trouble. No, it’s not a frightened wolf prowling around me. It can’t just be chased away.

“I don’t care about danger,” is what she actually says. “I just wanted to visit the church.”

“It’s five in the morning. Everyone’s sleeping. This neighborhood is dangerous. You should go home. Look, come back in the morning. We’ll all be rested, and then you’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for. Please, listen to me. We’re all tired.”

Mylia was quiet for a while, and then she doubled over thanks to the strange new pain shooting out laterally from the other, familiar, constant pain from near her stomach. Then, yet another new pain announced itself—higher up.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m in pain.”

“You should go home. It’s very late.”

Mylia composed herself. She asked, “Do you know if there are any churches still open?”