There were papers spread across the living room table, along with his laptop and what looked like an untouched cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this is inconvenient. Why don’t I just go into . . .”

I looked around the apartment. Living room. Bathroom. Bedroom. Kitchen and dining room. Closet. That was it. I was sure it was a million-dollar condo, but you were paying for the address and the view, not the square footage. Given how he’d cut me off from venturing into the kitchen this morning, my options for giving him space were limited.

“I could use a bath,” I said. “A long one. You keep doing whatever you were doing.”

He swept the pages off the table and tucked them into a file. “It was just work. It wasn’t going very well.”

“If it’s anything I can help with . . .” I began.

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

“Okay, well, let me go take that bath. I know you were expecting an evening of peace and quiet—”

“I’m quite happy to abandon it, given how poorly it was progressing.” He closed his laptop with a decisive click, dumped his coffee in the kitchen sink, and when he came back, he was more himself, his movements smoother, words more precise. “If you want a bath, you’re quite welcome to one, but given that your evening with Ricky was lost, I’m guessing you haven’t had dinner yet.”

“No, but—”

“Nor have I. There’s a place nearby. We’ll walk.”

DOWNWARD SPIRAL

Gabriel was six when he learned that other people dreamed at night. He was in first grade, and the teacher had asked them to draw a picture of something from their dreams. While the other children settled in, crayons in hand, bent over their construction paper, he asked the teacher for an explanation. As she gave one, he could tell that she expected him to nod in understanding. He was the best student in reading and spelling and third-best in math. He was not stupid, but he felt like it then, watching her wait for comprehension he didn’t feel.

“I don’t have those,” he finally said.

She smiled and shook her head. “Everyone dreams, Gabriel. You just don’t remember them.”

“No, I’ve never had one.”

“So you see nothing when you sleep?”

He considered it and then said, “Sometimes I remember things that happened to me.”

She patted his shoulder, and he struggled not to tense at her touch. His kindergarten teacher had noticed that he flinched at physical contact, which had led to a talk about abuse. It was a concept he was familiar with, but that was none of his teacher’s business. So he let her pat his shoulder and only gritted his teeth against it.