But before we were sent out in the field as exit guides, there were a number of self-assessments we had to get through. The first was an exercise that we used to prepare ourselves for death, which Bethanny said required the kind of relationship to truth and honesty that most people do not have. We paired up, seats facing each other, and held hands. Nathan was sitting two seats away from me and introduced himself as he swiveled his seat around and faced his palms out toward me. “How are you?” he asked. The truth was, and always is, that I didn’t know. But I mouthed “fine” with a smile so we could move on.

Bethanny wanted Nathan in here as a support for the new trainees. He told me he had already been out in the field and said it was “heavy but meaningful work.”

Nathan had crow’s-feet around his blue eyes and he looked of indeterminate age—maybe thirty-five, more likely a healthy Los Angeles forty-five. He wore New Balance sneakers, a dark-blue T-shirt, and unfashionable jeans that he probably thought were fashionable. He was a person you would pass on the street and maybe casually stare at for too long, but not in a way that made you feel hungry for someone. He was the kind of person you could project whatever you wanted onto.

Bethanny called out, “Look down at your sheets of paper. You’ll ask the question to your partner over the course of five minutes. Then you’ll switch.”

I looked down at the sheet of paper and there was only one question on it: “How do you avoid pain?”

We were about to launch into what Bethanny called “pain-avoidance techniques” with each other, and all I wanted to do was escape. Nathan seemed to be a joiner, whereas I was not. I had watched as he walked up to people at the beginning of the session and introduced himself to strangers like they were friends he couldn’t wait to have. He seemed to be able to produce a casual intimacy with anyone. I wanted that sort of ease, too, but instead I was the kind of person who avoided eye contact.

“Do you want to ask first or should I?” he said. “Evelyn, right?”

In the sea of names, he remembered mine. The gesture felt meaningful to me.

“You,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

He smiled and said, “How do you avoid pain, Evelyn?”

“Xanax. Sometimes Klonopin instead.”

He was unfazed. I was starting off easy.

“How do you avoid pain, Evelyn?”

“Wine.”

“How do you avoid pain?”

“My weed pen.”

“How do you avoid pain?”

“Obviously, however I can.”

I had run out of the kind of answers that felt safe to disclose, so I was moving on to jokes. He asked me again and I said, “Making jokes.”