“‘Down in the street, a young boy hears an old magic man’s cries and, fearing that the odd fellow might be in some sort of trouble, rushes into the building and up to an old magic man’s cluttered room. He flings open the door with such force that all the escaped magic—except for the wooden soldier mask, which manages to hide beneath the sofa—is squashed into one enormous blob and bursts.

“‘Hours later they are still trying to scrub it off the young boy, but to no avail; it has soaked into the boy’s skin. “Well,” says an old magic man, looking down at the young boy who is very short, “it appears we have a problem.” “I’ve never felt magic before,” says the young boy, looking up at an old magic man, who is a giant. “Is it supposed to itch like this?” “You’ll get used to it,” says an old magic man, scratching under one of his arms, then: “Say, you’re not by chance looking for a job, are you?”

“‘And that is how an old magic man found his apprentice.’”

The actor in the bed tried to sit up but found his body was too weak, and in a moment that knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his arms, Martin realized that it wasn’t any well-known familiar actor, it was him. “Why are you reading this to me?” his on-screen self asked the large black man. The large black man winked. “Patience never was one of your strong points, was it?” Once again Martin-on-the-screen tried to move, but his limbs were useless. “I can’t seem to . . . Jesus! Help me, will you?” “That’s the idea,” said the large black man, wetting his thumb and turning the page. “By the way, Martin . . .”

. . . Martin . . .

“. . . Martin . . .”

“Martin!”

He blinked his eyes and saw Dr. Hayes standing over him, her hand still on his shoulder from having shaken him.

“I see you took your morning medications,” she said, smiling at him as she turned off the television, then sat down in the easy chair opposite his. “They pack a bit of a punch, don’t they?”

“Uh . . . yeah . . . yeah, they do.” He pulled himself up, stretched his back, and leaned forward. “Sorry about that. Was I asleep?”

“I couldn’t tell, but after you didn’t respond to me saying your name, I just assumed . . . .”

“I don’t remember falling asleep . . . I mean, it feels like I was maybe asleep, but

. . .” he sighed. “I’m babbling. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. The first day or two we have to go through a sort of trail-and-error with the medications, see which ones you best respond to. Most clients are fairly numb the first thirty-six hours or so. Some of the combinations do a real number on people. Are you okay now? You up for this?”

Martin shrugged. “I’d kill for a cup of real coffee right about now. That was a figure of speech, by the way, the ‘kill for’ part.” “I figured.” Martin stared at a large carry-out cup of coffee that Dr. Hayes had brought in with her. “I see that you covet my café mocha.” He looked up at her. “If I got an empty cup, could I have just a little bit?” “Caffeine is against the rules, Martin.” “Please? I promise you I’m not going to flip out or start bouncing off the walls or take hostages.”

“Actually, Martin, I’m a fairly selfish person—comes from growing up as the youngest child with three older brothers who never left my stuff alone. I don’t like sharing. However—” She reached behind her and picked up another cup of carry-out coffee. “—I’m also not inconsiderate.” She handed the cup to Martin. “Anyone asks, that’s decaffeinated, got it?”

“You’re the boss. By the way, I love you and want to have your babies.” He pulled back the tab on the plastic lid and took a slow, deep swallow. Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful. “Oh, yes . . . you know, I always suspected that the ‘manna from Heaven’ in the Bible was actually slow-brewed coffee. With whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.”

Dr. Hayes smiled. “I figured that you’d be a little wonky from the medications, and I’d prefer that you not conk out on me in the middle of this.” “Thank you.” Already the dream—if that’s what it had been—was fading away . . . just not completely.

Don’t dwell on it, pal; dwelling on things is what put you here, remember? “How are you getting along so far?” asked Dr. Hayes. “Okay, I guess. I’ve already caused another client to blow a gasket and I didn’t have to say a word.” “Yes . . . Ethel mentioned something about Wendy. Do you want to talk about it?” “No, I don’t think so. I guess we’ll find out as we go along, huh?”

Dr. Hayes stared at him for a moment, then opened the file lying on her lap. “All right. I’ve spoken to your doctor, and he was good enough to fax me your records—you signed a form granting him permission to share them with any other doctor treating you—”

“I remember. I sign that same form every year.”

“I am required to tell you that.” She flipped through a couple of pages, then back again. “You’ve had trouble with depression for a very long time, haven’t you? Even before your parents’ deaths, you were being treated for it.”

“One hundred milligrams of Zoloft twice a day—mornings and afternoons; thirty milligrams of Remeron at night.”

“That’s pretty hefty, putting Remeron on top of the Zoloft. I take it you have trouble falling asleep?”

“Staying asleep, actually.”

“You wake up after a few hours, then toss and turn, go in and out for brief periods, maybe fall back asleep about an hour before the alarm goes off?”

Martin nodded. “Give that lady a cigar.” He took another glorious swallow of the large café mocha.

Still flipping back and forth between the faxed pages and various forms, Dr. Hayes asked: “I see that the Zoloft dosage was increased right around the time your father completed his last round of radiation treatments.”

“Things were . . . kind of tense. He had trouble controlling his bowels, and anytime he didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, he’d lose his temper or start crying like a baby; Mom and I would switch around—one of us would take care of Dad, wipe him off, clean him up, calm him down; the other would mop up whatever kind of . . . trail he left along the way. It was bad, and I was getting more and more shaky, and I was the only person they had to depend on, so my doctor increased the dosage and that helped a little.”

“Look, Martin,” said Dr. Hayes, closing the folder on whose cover she would continuously write notes for the rest of the session. “I realize that a large part of your recent depression was centered around your parents’ illnesses and deaths, that’s only natural. But their dying wasn’t what pushed you into planning your own death, was it?”

“It might have nudged things a little.” He exhaled, shook his head, and wasn’t surprised to feel a few stray tears dribble from his eyes and slide down his face. “One morning after Mom’s funeral I woke up, showered, got dressed, had breakfast, and was starting out the door when it suddenly hit me that . . . I had nowhere to go. I wouldn’t be taking Dad to and from his treatments or his doctor, I wouldn’t be taking Mom to her cardiologist or running errands for her, I didn’t need to separate their medications for the week and put everything in the dispensers, I didn’t need to do anything around the house because nobody . . . nobody was home anymore . . . all I had to do was go into work at five p.m. and do my job until midnight. That was it. And it scared the shit out of me.”

Dr. Hayes nodded. “So much of your day-to-day life had been centered on helping to take care of them that maybe you forgot to take care of yourself.” Martin shook his head. “Don’t make it sound so noble. I did what any kid should do for their parents.” “Did you resent it sometimes?” “Hell, yes—why wouldn’t I?” “There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s a natural reaction.”

“Thank you, but I’m not looking for . . . what’s the word?—validation. I know there was nothing wrong with feeling that way, it didn’t make me evil, it didn’t make me a bad son or a rotten human being who should go straight to Hell and spend eternity bowling with Eichmann—I know this, okay? Most of the time, I was grateful for having so much to do. It kept the days pretty full.” “What did you do before all of that? How did you fill your days?” “I read a lot. Watched movies. Listened to music. Went to work.” “You told me last night that you’d wanted to be a writer. Did you spend any time writing?” “No.” “Why not?” Martin took another swallow of coffee. “Because it’s too late.” “What do you mean?”