Is Death miles away from this house, reaching for a window in Cinncinati or breathing down the neck of a lost hiker in British Columbia? Is he too busy making arrangements, tampering with air brakes, scattering cancer cells like seeds, loosening the wooden beams of roller coasters to bother with my hidden cottage that visitors find so hard to find? Or is he stepping from a black car parked at the dark end of the lane, shaking open the familiar…