After I had finished reading, I turned to the writer and I said gently, “This is an interesting allegory in its way, although the ending seems a little … melodramatic? And a most valuable document as well. I can see how people would like your writing.”

The writer again sat behind the desk. “It’s not an allegory. It’s my life.” He seemed defeated, as if he had reread the tale over my shoulder.

“Don’t you think it is time to discuss the fire?” I asked him. “Isn’t this all leading to the fire?”

He turned his head to one side, as if he were a horse resisting a bit. “Maybe. Maybe it is. When can I see my wife?”

“Not until we’re done,” I said. Who knew when he would see his wife? It has been my experience that I must lie, or half-lie, in order to preserve a certain equilibrium in the patient. I do not enjoy it. I do not relish it. But I do it.

“You have to understand,” X said, “that I don’t fully understand what happened. I can only guess.”

“I will gladly accept your best guess.”

But, despite my control, a grim smile played across my lips. I could smell his desperation: it smelled like yellow grass, like stale biscuits, like sour milk.