But it was understandable that his thoughts of suicide were often and intense. The psychiatrist who has the power to fry the brain of another human being, claiming to understand the channels that run in this glutinous mass of grey and smelly blancmange that is the brain, is in Ever’s mind an absurdity, but it is, of course, questionable whether his mind is capable of that assessment.

It was for the avoidance of the ECT, the major thing, that Ever bore an enormous gratitude towards his wife. His brain did not get cooked by the cold impersonality of the beige woman, who he remembers amidst the confusion and breakdown of the connections, the failure of the synapses to allow the neurotransmitters to dump their serotonin and dopamine into the synapse gap thus producing, through their connectivity, the process that is known as logical and positive thought.

For three weeks with these drugs, with escorted walks around the grounds, in his down time, in his room, he could only face the banality of morning television, the simpler it was, the better, and when it was over he would draw.

The same drawing, time after time.

Of a house, a driveway, and a garage.

That garage, bigger than his bedroom.

He never thought he would be the same person again.

*

Ever was staring at the In-N-Out Burger drive-thru entrance.

Twenty-seven.

The number or the eventuality of that number wouldn’t leave, would go nowhere but with him.

Clung to him twenty and seven.

Two.

Seven.

It was there – twenty-seven paintings sold.

That was good, wasn’t it?

His father never knew. Would that have helped him? He never knew – the twenty-seven.

Two and seven is nine. The trinity of trinities.

That was good, wasn’t it? He was an artist who sold. Someone wanted him.

Dad!

Ever screamed, silent, in the car.

Dad, can you hear? You were wanted 272727272727272727. I love you. Twenty-seven times you were loved. Weren’t you?

Where are they?

The magnificent twenty-seven. Where are they, those twenty-seven paintings? Are they glorious or miserable now? Wherever they are.

Who’s watching them now?

The horns of the cars behind, honking, unaware that a man had frozen. A man had stopped his life, or rather his life had just stopped.

It was involuntary.

It was not his choice. There was a man, a boy really, with an electronic order pad who was at first suggesting he make an order or move on and drive out, then telling him to order or move out, and the suggestion in his tone was that the next command would be quite simply, get the fuck out of here if you’re not going to order, but Ever, hearing, yes, and grasping the order of the words but not comprehending, could not move.