I smiled. “Speaking of which, are you taking anything?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

That seminod, or maybe it was a half shrug. “Just say no to drugs, yada, yada, yada. Prescription, nonprescription, it’s a fine line out there with narcotics, and I’d prefer not to cross it.”

“Are you afraid of drugs?”

“Say what?”

“Some people are. They’re afraid of how the drugs may make them feel; they’re afraid of becoming addicted. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just asking.”

“I don’t like meds. Plain and simple. They’re not for me.”

“You consider yourself tougher than that?”

“You’re stereotyping me.”

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

“Is it true you can’t feel pain?”

I smiled, sat back fully and glanced at the clock. “Twenty-two minutes,” I said.

The detective wasn’t dumb. She glanced at the wall clock hanging beside my desk, then scowled.

“You’re a detective,” I continued. “Of course you ran a background on me. And since the Boston Herald, not to mention numerous science publications, have found my condition fascinating, you learned quite a bit. Then it was simply a matter of waiting until you needed to distract, evade. The best defense is a good offense, yes?” I kept my voice even. “For the record, Detective, I can’t feel any physical pain. Which means I have nothing better to do than focus on yours. And you still haven’t answered my question. Do you consider yourself tough?”

“Yes,” she bit out.

“So tough, your back, your shoulder, shouldn’t be slowing you down like this?”

“I can’t wash my hair!”

I waited.

“I can’t lift my son. My three-year-old son. And last night, he went to hug me and I stepped away because I knew it would hurt. I couldn’t take the pain!”

I waited.

“And the docs all say it’ll get better. Do this, take that, but in the meantime, I can’t sleep, I can’t move and I can’t even enjoy lounging around in bed, because I fucking hate my bed. It hurts too much to get in and out of it. I’m old, I’m broken and I’m basically unemployed. Shit!”

Then: “Goddamn, shit on a stick, bite me, fuckety fuck fuck. Shit!”

“Melvin,” I said.

“What?” D.D. looked up, a semiferal gleam in her eye. A look I’d seen many times in my practice; the gaze of an animal in pain.

“Melvin,” I repeated calmly. “I think you should name your pain Melvin. Shit on a stick, fuckety fuck fuck Melvin. And every time he bothers you, yell at him. Curse him out. Why not? You might actually feel better. Discover that putting your Self in charge of Melvin makes him smaller and your Self more powerful. And isn’t that really what you miss? Feeling powerful?”

“Melvin,” D.D. said.