She lifted her sunglasses and wiped an eye with one finger. Putting the shades back, she said, “You don't need to hear this, you've got your own problems.”

I saw faint reflections of myself in her black lenses, distorted and tense.

“You seem like a nice young fellow, listening to me go on like this. Ever save any bugs yourself?”

“Maybe a couple of times.”

She smiled. “Bet it was more than a couple. Bet you punched those holes in the top of the jars so the bugs could breathe, right? Bet your mother loved that, too, all those creepy things in the house.”

I laughed.

“I'm right, aren't I? I should be a psychologist.”

“It does bring back certain memories,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “Out to save the world, all of you. You married?”

“No.”

“A fellow like you, same attitude as my Becky, you would have been okay for her. You could have saved the world together. But to be honest, she probably wouldn't have gone for you—no offense, you're just too . . . put-together. That's a compliment, believe me.” She patted my knee. Frowned. “I'm sorry for what you're going through. And be sure to take good care of yourself. Something happens to you, your mother's going to die, over and over. You'll be gone but she'll be left dying every day—understand?”

The hand on my knee clawed.

I nodded.

“Something happens to you, your mother's going to lie in bed and think about you, over and over and over. Wondering how much you suffered. Wondering what you were thinking when it happened to you—why it happened to her kid and not someone else's. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I do.”

“So be careful.”

“That's why I'm here,” I said. “To protect myself.”

She whipped off the sunglasses. Her eyes were so raw the whites looked brown. “Gritz—no, she never said a word about anyone named that. Or Silk or Merino.”

“Did she ever talk about Hewitt?”

“No, not really.” She seemed to be deliberating. I didn't move or speak.

The raw eyes moistened. “She mentioned him once—maybe a week or two before. Said she was treating this really crazy person and thought she was helping him. She said it respectfully—this poor, sick fellow that she really wanted to help. Schizophrenic, whatever—hearing voices. No one else had been able to help him, but she thought she could. He was starting to trust her.”

She spat on the ground.

“She mentioned him by name?”

“No. She made a point of not talking about any of them by name. Big point of following the rules.”

Remembering Becky's sketchy notes and lack of follow-through with Jean, I said, “A real stickler, huh?”