He missed my mother, I guessed.

I’d once gone so far as to battle Mr. Friskers into his cat carrier, in preparation to get him declawed, and if possible, detoothed. Mom, in her mother tone, reminded me that the cat had saved both of our lives, and removing his claws would be like taking away Wyatt Earp’s Colt Peacemaker.

I told her, “Wyatt Earp didn’t terrorize the West, maiming innocents and destroying property.”

“Let the kitty out of the carrier, dear, and help yourself to my Valium.”

The cat was the one who needed the Valium. But Mom won, and the weapons of mass destruction weren’t removed. Mr. Friskers celebrated his victory by tearing apart a section of carpeting in my bedroom.

He never seemed to destroy any of Mom’s things.

I went into the kitchen, litter crunching underfoot, and saw Mr. Friskers on the countertop, playing with something small and dark.

That poor mariachi’s mustache.

“You’re the Antichrist,” I told him.

He ignored me.

I checked his food dish, saw that it was filled with kitty litter (how did he do that?), and rinsed it out. I dumped in some dry food, refreshed his water, and plodded into the bedroom.

As I undressed, I thought about Latham and got pretty choked up. Not only because he was sick, but because I should have said yes when he proposed. I looked at my left hand and felt an itch where the ring should be.

Where was the ring?

Latham had appropriated a few drawers in my dresser, and I opened up the top one. The ring box was resting on top of his jeans. I took it out and opened it up.

It was gorgeous. Bigger than I remembered. And I wanted it so badly.

I considered putting it on, so he could see it when I visited him. But I wanted him to put it on me. I wanted the mariachi players again, and the kneeling, and the sweet speech, but this time I’d say yes, and no one would lose any facial hair, and then we’d have a romantic dinner and wild sex and I’d soon be Jacqueline Conger. Jacqueline Conger-Daniels. Jacqueline Daniels-Conger.

Well, we’d figure out the name stuff later.

I closed the box and put it back in the drawer.

A hot shower burned away some of the stress, but not much. I threw on one of Latham’s undershirts, rubbed some Oil of Olay into my wrinkles, and plopped into bed as exhausted as I’d ever been.

Sleep refused to come.

After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I flipped on the Home Shopping Network. I had their 800 number on speed dial, my customer number committed to memory, and I bought a portable steamer, a hair-coloring system guaranteed to get out the gray in five easy minutes, and an assortment of fake eyelashes because I’d never owned fake eyelashes and because they looked like fun and because I was seriously overtired.

“Would you like to put this on your Visa, Ms. Daniels?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Some people had cocaine. I had HSN. It was still up in the air as to which was the more expensive addiction.

The phone rang, and I wondered if it was Stacey from HSN, telling me their computer burst into flames when they tried to authorize my credit card.

But it wasn’t HSN. It was the hospital.

“Are you the next of kin for Latham Conger?”

I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I managed to say, “Yes.”

“You’d better get here are soon as possible.”

“What’s going on?”

“His condition has deteriorated. He may not last the night.”

I glanced at the drawer, the one with the engagement ring in it. Then I threw on some clothes and headed for the hospital.

HIS GREEN SWEATPANTS have holes in the knees, and have been rubbed with grease and grime from his gas grill. He wears a blue hoodie, equally stained, and over that a black rain slicker. His shoes are an old pair of white Nikes that have been scribbled on with black permanent marker. Grease also coats his forehead and both cheeks. The glued-on goatee has bits of crackers in it.

Taped to the insides of his jacket are eight large-sized ziplock bags. They’re full, and when he cinches his jacket closed, he can feel their contents wiggling.

He carries a stuffed backpack, also dirtied up. If he puts his ear to it, he hears a soft rustling sound.

He checks the mirror, rubs more grease onto his face and over the backs of his hands, and then pulls on a wool cap, covering his hair.

Then he walks to the corner and waits for the bus.

Even at three in the morning, it’s unbearably hot. It’s only June, but Chicago already has that oily humidity so common during summer nights; part garbage smell, part sewage smell, with just a hint of Lake Michigan. It’s bright out-traffic, shops, streetlights-and the bus stop is especially well lit. To discourage criminal behavior, he assumes. He’s not discouraged in the least.

The movement inside his jacket is creepy, repulsive. He forces himself not to fidget, to keep the coat on and relax. When the bus arrives, green and white and almost as dirty as he is, he puts his quarters in the money box and the driver makes a show of not looking at him.

The bus has a few occupants. A single black man. Some college kids talking loud. A woman who might be a hooker. He sits in an empty seat and places his backpack between his feet. He stares at it, and tries not to think about what he’s got under his coat, tries not to think about what he’s going to do.

His stop comes up. He gets off the bus. There are a few people on the sidewalk, but not nearly as many as before. He’s sweating hard now, and can smell himself. It adds to his disguise.

The police station is ahead, and he hesitates. He’d been inside a few months ago, to get a layout of the place. This will work. He just needs to remain calm.

He walks through the front doors, up to the desk sergeant seated behind the bulletproof glass.

“I was robbed,” he says, putting a little alcohol slur into the words. Then he gives a fake name. Brian Pinkerton.

The cop frowns at him. He can guess the sergeant’s thoughts. No one likes the homeless. They’re a blight on the city. Who cares if one got robbed? But a crime is a crime, and they have to take the reports.

He’s told to sit down in the lobby and a police officer will be with him, but it may take a little while.

Which is perfect.

He takes a seat on a cracked vinyl bench the color of cigarette smoke, and places the bag between his feet like he did on the bus. But this time, he unzips the top.

There are half a dozen people in the lobby. An old woman, black and fat, obviously homeless, muttering to herself. A Hispanic lady who keeps dabbing at the tears in her eyes with a wadded-up tissue. Two white guys with various facial cuts and bruises. A man in a reverend’s collar. An angry-looking old man, swinging his cane around like he’s swatting flies.

The first cockroach climbs out of the backpack, hesitates for a millisecond, then climbs down the side and tears across the room.

Two more do the same thing.

Then thousands.

One of the white guys is the first to notice. He stands abruptly, pointing and saying, “Holy shit!”

His companion also stands.

“That is disgusting.”

The angry old man also stands up, uttering a round of expletives, the favorite being, “Goddamn!”

Crying lady leaps to her feet and runs across the room, screaming. The reverend watches, mouth agape, and then also gets up and retreats to a corner of the room.

The Chemist remains still, even as the roaches crawl up his legs. He’s been preparing for this for many months, breeding and feeding the bugs, sticking his hands into the roach pen to overcome his inherent squeamishness. He reaches inside his raincoat, pulling open one of the bags. Roaches erupt from the holes in his clothing like he’s bleeding them out of his veins.