Vince nodded at the crumpled white bag on my desk. “It was your turn, goody. What'd you bring me? Where is it?”

“Sorry, Vince,” I said. “Debbie ate your cruller.”

“I wish,” he said, with his sharp, imitation leer. “Then I could eat her jelly roll. You owe me a big doughnut, Dex,” he said.

“The only big one you'll ever have,” Deborah said.

“It's not the size of the doughnut, it's the skill of the baker,” Vince told her.

“Please,” I said. “You two are going to sprain a frontal lobe. It's too early to be this clever.”

“Ah-ha,” Vince said, with his terrible fake laugh. “Ah-ha ha-ha. See you later.” He winked. “Don't forget my doughnut.” And he wandered away to his microscope down the hall.

“So what have you figured out?” Deb asked me.

Deb believed that every now and then I got hunches. She had reason to believe. Usually my inspired guesses had to do with the brutal whackos who liked to hack up some poor slob every few weeks just for the hell of it. Several times Deborah had seen me put a quick and clean finger on something that nobody else knew was there. She had never said anything, but my sister is a damned good cop, and so she has suspected me of something for quite a while. She doesn't know what, but she knows there is something wrong there and it bothers the hell out of her every now and then, because she does, after all, love me. The last living thing on the earth that does love me. This is not self-pity but the coldest, clearest self-knowledge. I am unlovable. Following Harry's plan, I have tried to involve myself in other people, in relationships, and even—in my sillier moments—in love. But it doesn't work. Something in me is broken or missing, and sooner or later the other person catches me Acting, or one of Those Nights comes along.

I can't even keep pets. Animals hate me. I bought a dog once; it barked and howled—at me—in a nonstop no-mind fury for two days before I had to get rid of it. I tried a turtle. I touched it once and it wouldn't come out of its shell again, and after a few days of that it died. Rather than see me or have me touch it again, it died.

Nothing else loves me, or ever will. Not even—especially—me. I know what I am and that is not a thing to love. I am alone in the world, all alone, but for Deborah. Except, of course, for the Thing inside, who does not come out to play too often. And does not actually play with me but must have somebody else.

So as much as I can, I care about her, dear Deborah. It is probably not love, but I would rather she were happy.

And she sat there, dear Deborah, looking unhappy. My family. Staring at me and not knowing what to say, but coming closer to saying it than ever before.