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—

I climbed into bed at nine, with the window cracked just high enough so I could hear the rain.

I opened the book I’d been reading this week—Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. Before Denver, there’d been a twelve-book tower on my nightstand, comprising birthday and Christmas gifts over the last few years. I’d always intended to read them, but usually, at day’s end, all I had the energy and focus for was watching an episode or two of whatever nonsense was mildly holding my interest.

Perhaps it was being at home for a month without the stress of work, but I’d found myself with a newfound surfeit of concentration and curiosity.

For the last two weeks, I’d found that, even when I did watch TV, I gravitated to documentaries and true stories. And reading had become my joy again. There was nothing quite like the feel of my fingers turning pages in the silence, and I was also remembering past books I’d read.

Exact passages of prose.

Even what I’d felt at the time I’d read them.

I finished the book a little past midnight, closing it with a small fire of accomplishment glowing inside of me. In the last two weeks, I’d read all twelve books that had been languishing on my nightstand.

I hadn’t been capable of this intensity of concentration and focus in, well, ever. Something was different. As I closed my eyes, a quiet voice whispered from the furthest corner of my mind. Not something. It’s you that’s different.



* * *



—

My psychologist’s office was in Georgetown, and I didn’t know if the intent had been to create a calm, soothing space, but nearly every item in the room—carpet, furniture, curtains, artwork—was some shade of gray.

Her name was Aimee, this was our third session, and already I could sense that we were coming to the end of things to talk about with regard to what had happened in Denver. I was having to carry the conversation more, often saying with twenty words what only needed ten, doing whatever I could to fill the fifty minutes.

But something was different today.

From the start of our session, it was apparent that Aimee was attempting to guide the conversation in a way she hadn’t previously.

She kept circling the idea that new traumas reopen old wounds.

“I guess I’m just wondering,” she said finally, “if the incident in Denver brought back any of the emotions or fears from the last time you were injured. Or any other events in your life.”

And there it is, I thought. Maybe Aimee Frum, Ph.D., thought she was being subtle, but as far as I was concerned, she was wearing a flashing billboard.

And it said: I’m trying to get you to talk about your mother.

I suppose my only open question was whether she legitimately believed we needed to talk about my mother in order to confront what had happened in Denver or if her curiosity having gotten the better of her, I was simply an irresistible psychological box of chocolates that she couldn’t stop herself from opening.

I said, “Not really.”

“I understand you spent some time in prison.”

“Three years. From age twenty-seven to twenty-nine.”

“Must’ve been difficult.”

“I was in medium security. Got into two fights the entire time. That’s why my nose is crooked. Mostly kept my head down. None of the gangs bothered me, and some good came out of it—I met my wife there.”

“In prison?”

“Beth’s a professor of criminology. At the time, she was doing research at my prison. She reached out. We met, hit it off, started meeting once a week. This went on for a couple of months, until she left to take a job at American University. When I was released, I asked her out. That was fifteen years ago next month.”

“Good first date?”

“The greatest.”

“How did it feel to be free after all that time?”

She was starting to annoy me.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“The ACLU was able to secure a pardon for me. A lot of people in the legal community felt I was being punished for my mother’s crimes.”

“How did you feel?”

“Glad to be out.”

“Why?”

Jesus.

“Because not being in prison is more enjoyable than being in prison.”

“It seems like my questions are irritating you today.”

“Not at all.”

“Maybe you could try being honest with me, Logan.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Okay. I am irritated.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure you’re a very good therapist, but I don’t know you. I didn’t choose to be here. And I worked through this stuff years ago. Haven’t had a panic attack in a long time.”

“You used to have them regularly?”

“Yeah. Look, the first two sessions were fine—”

“High praise.”

“—but what I’m getting from you today feels more like morbid curiosity.”

Now it was Aimee’s turn to be annoyed. “I wonder if you could try giving me the benefit of the doubt. I’m only here to help you. I am purely in your corner.”

“You think I still need help?”