Robert Hope has become abnormally detached from his life. But, he thinks, he has not done it to himself. Something prevents him from connecting, from engaging with the immediate products of the act of living. To absorb his inner tension, he becomes acutely, briefly aware of details and isolated incidents throughout his day: the woman's gloves on the bus, people's changing eye colors, and the like. His mundane, aloof brownstone; his wife, Edith; and their two children, Julia and Margaret, register no differently. For twelve years, Robert's life has been a perennial cycle between home and work, work and home, with the occasional vacation to Maine. Robert has always feared he will enter the wrong house by accident. He's never done it, but the sequence of confusion, embarrassment, and rage which he feels when he second-guesses himself in his own vestibule always happens exactly the same way, and he can never anticipate it. One night, Robert comes home very late from work. This time, he actually does go to the wrong house, and he has no idea how to react. So he floats home, tries to sleep next to his dissatisfied wife, and, stricken by a painful headache, eventually leaves for the living room. A month of pain later, his doctor sends him to the beach for two weeks. There, Robert interacts with no one, but somehow, he feels as though his soul has harmonized with the world. The headaches vanish, as does the sense of detachment. But disaster strikes upon his return: once again, he tries to enter the wrong vestibule. As tears sting his eyes and his world seems to collapse around him, he tries to conjure strength from the contemplation of rest.