“I think you are, too. And don’t worry about hurting my feelings.”

She started to cry.

I went to her, hugged her. She put her head against my chest and sobbed.

“I know it’s hard,” I said. “You’re worried about hurting my feelings. Probably been worried about that for a long time.”

Wet nods.

“That’s very kind of you, Melissa. I appreciate your caring about my feelings. But don’t worry- I’m fine. Sure, I’ll miss seeing you, but I’ll always keep you in my mind. And just because you stop coming for regular sessions doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch. Over the phone. Or by writing letters. You can even come in to see me when there’s nothing bothering you. Just to say hi.”

“Do other patients do that?”

“Sure.”

“What’re their names?”

Smiling mischievously.

We both laughed.

I said, “The thing that’s most important to me, Melissa, is how well you’ve done. How you’ve taken charge over your fears. I’m really impressed.”

“I really feel I can handle things,” she said, drying her eyes.

“I’m sure you can.”

“I can,” she repeated, looking over at the big basket. “Have you ever had chestnut paste? It’s kind of weird- doesn’t taste like roasted chestnuts at all…”

The following week, I phoned her. Dutchy answered. I asked how she was doing. He said, “Very well indeed, Doctor. Let me get her for you.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he sounded friendly.

Melissa came on the line, polite but distant. Letting me know she was okay, would call me if she needed to come in. She never did.

I called a couple of more times. She sounded distracted and eager to get off the phone.

A few weeks later I was doing my books, reached her ledger sheet, and realized I’d been paid in advance for ten sessions I hadn’t conducted. I wrote out a check and mailed it to San Labrador. The next day a manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was my check, in three neatly torn pieces, along with a sheet of scented stationery.

Dear Dr. Delaware,

With much gratitude,

Faithfully yours,

Gina Dickinson

Same fine graceful hand she’d used to promise me, two years ago, that she’d be in touch.

I wrote another check for exactly the same amount, made it out to Western Pediatrics Toy Fund, went down to the lobby, and posted it. Knowing I was doing it for myself as much as for the kids who’d get the toys, and telling myself I had no damn right to feel noble.

Then I took the elevator back up to my office and got ready for my next patient.

It was one in the morning when I put the file away. Reminiscing was strenuous exercise, and fatigue had enveloped me. I hobbled to bed, slept fitfully, did a good impression of waking at seven, and marched into the shower. A few minutes after I’d dressed, the bell rang. I went to the door and opened it.

Milo stood out on the terrace, hands in his pockets, wearing a yellow golf shirt with two wide horizontal green stripes, tan chinos, and high-top basketball shoes that had once been white. His black hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, the forelock completely hiding the brow, the sideburns nearly at jaw level. His pocked, lumpy face was flecked with three days’ worth of patchy beard and his green eyes seemed filmed over- the normally startling hue dulled to the color of very old grass.

He said, “The good news is at least now you lock it. The bad news is you open it without checking to see who the hell’s out there.”

“What makes you think I didn’t check?” I said, standing aside and letting him in.

“Latency of response from final footstep to latch-turn. Powers of detection.” He tapped his temple and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Good morning, Detective. Leisure becomes you.”

He grunted and didn’t break step.

I said, “What’s up?”

“What should be up?” he called back, face already in the fridge.

Another bona fide random drop-in. They were growing more frequent.

Terminal doldrums.

Halfway into his punishment- six months’ suspension from the force without pay. The most the department could hand out short of canning him. The department hoping he’d learn to enjoy civilian life and never come back. The department deluding itself.

He scrounged for a while, found rye bread, lox spread, and milk, located a knife and a plate, and began preparing himself some breakfast.

“What are you staring at?” he said. “Never seen a guy cook before?”

I went to get dressed. When I came back he was standing at the counter, eating spread on toast and drinking milk out of the carton. He’d put on more weight- his belly approached sumo-status, meloning the nylon shirt.

“Got a busy day planned?” he said. “Thought we might go down to Rancho and shoot some golf balls.”

“Didn’t know you golfed.”

“I don’t. But a guy needs a hobby, right?”

“Sorry, I’m working this morning.”

“Oh, yeah? Need me to leave?”

“No, not patients. I’m doing some writing.”

“Ahh,” he said, giving a dismissing wave. “I meant real work.”

“It’s real work for me.”

“What, the old blockaroo?”

I nodded.

He said, “Want me to do it for you?”

“Do what?”

“Write your paper.”

“Right.”

“No, I’m serious. Scribbling always came easy for me. That’s why I went as far as the master’s- God knows it wasn’t all the academic shit they shoved at me. Not much flair to my prose, but it was… workmanlike, if a bit pedestrian. In the words of my former academic adviser.”

He crunched toast. Crumbs cascaded down his shirtfront. He made no effort to brush them off.

I said, “Thanks, Milo, but I’m not ready for a ghostwriter yet.” I went to make coffee.

“Whatsamatter?” he said with a full mouth. “Don’t trust me?”

“This is scientific writing. The Hale shooting for a psych journal.”

“So?”

“So we’re talking dry. Maybe a hundred pages of dry.”

“Big deal,” he said. “No worse than your basic homicide file.” He used a crescent of rye crust to tick his fingers: “Roman Numeral One: Synopsis of Crime. Roman Numeral Two: Chronological Narrative. Roman Numeral Three: Victim Information. Roman-”

“I get the point.”

He shoved the crust in his mouth. “The key to excellent report writing,” he said between chews, “is to take every bit of passion out of it. Use an extra heaping portion of superfluously extraneous tautological redundancies in order to make it mind-numbingly boring. So that when one’s superior officers read it, they zone out and start skimming and maybe don’t notice the fact that one has been spinning one’s wheels since the body turned up and hasn’t solved a goddam thing. Now tell me, is that so different from what you’re doing?”

I laughed. “Up till now I’ve been telling myself I was after the truth. Thanks for setting me straight.”

“No problem. It’s my job.”

“Speaking of job, how’d it go downtown?”

He gave a very long, very dark look. “More of the same. Desk jockeys with smiling faces. This time they brought in the department shrink.”

“Thought you refused counseling.”

“They got around it by calling it a stress evaluation. Terms of the penalty- read the small print.”

He shook his head. “All those greasy-faced fuckers talking real softly and slowly, as if I was senile. Inquiring about my adjustment. My stress level. Sharing their concern. Ever notice how people who talk about sharing never really do? They were also careful to let me know that all my medical bills had been picked up by the department- therefore the department had received copies of all my lab tests and there was some concern over my cholesterol level, triglycerides, whatever. Was I really feeling up to returning to active duty?”