“This summer—when the Jones case went to trial.”

“Anything's possible,” he said.

“Or maybe it's more direct, Milo. A former patient, telling me I failed him. I started going through my files, got halfway and couldn't find anything. But who knows? My patients were all children. In most cases I have no idea what kind of adults they turned into.”

“If you found anything funny, would you give me the names?”

“Couldn't,” I said. “Without some kind of clear danger, I couldn't justify breaking confidentiality.”

He scowled. The dog watched him unwaveringly.

“What're you staring at?” he demanded.

Wag, wag.

Milo began to smile, fought it, picked up his case, and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, Alex, I still wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Let me take these to the lab right now instead of tomorrow, see if I can get some night-shifter to put some speed on. I'll also make a copy and start a case file—private one, just for my eyes. When in doubt, be a goddamn clerk.”

After he left, I tried to read a psychology journal but couldn't concentrate. I watched the news, did fifty pushups, and had another go at my charts. I made it through all of them. Kids' names, vaguely remembered pathologies. No allusions to “bad love.” No one I could see wanting to frighten me.

At ten, Robin called. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi,” I said. “You sound good.”

“I am good, but I miss you. Maybe I'll come home early.”

“That would be great. Just say when and I'll be at the airport.”

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy. We've got a visitor.”

I described the bulldog's arrival.

“Oh,” she said, “he sounds adorable. Now I definitely want to come home early.”

“He snorts and drools.”

“How cute. You know, we should get a dog of our own. We're nurturant, right? And you had one when you were a kid. Don't you miss it?”

“My father had one,” I said. “A hunting cur that didn't like children. It died when I was five and we never got another, but sure, I like dogs—how about something big and protective?”

“Long as it's also warm and furry.”

“What breeds do you like?”

“I don't know—something solid and dependable. Let me think about it and when I get back we can go shopping.”

“Sounds good, bowwow.”

“We can do other stuff, too,” she said.

“Sounds even better.”

Just before midnight, I fashioned a bed for the dog out of a couple of towels, placed it on the floor of the service porch, and turned out the light. The dog stared at it, then trotted over to the fridge.

“No way,” I said. “Time to sleep.”

He turned his back on me and sat. I left for the bedroom. He heeled along. Feeling like Simon Legree, I closed the door on his supplicating eyes.