I looked up at the corner of the television screen where CNN always carried the time.

“It’s eleven-eighteen. Who came out to see you, Law? I want to know who is working the case.”

“I’m telling you, Harry, nobody came. As far as I knew, the case was deader than these goddamn legs of mine.”

“Then what was it you didn’t tell me when I was here before?”

His eyes went to the flask and he didn’t have to ask. I held it to his chapped and peeling lips and he drank deeply from it. He closed his eyes.

“Ah, God . . . ,” he said. “I’ve got . . .”

His eyes opened and they jumped on me like wolves taking down a deer.

“She’s keeping me alive,” he whispered desperately. “You think this is what I want? Sitting in my own shit half the time? She’s getting a full ride while I’m alive—full pay and medical. If I’m gone she gets the widow’s pension. And I wasn’t in that long, Harry. Fourteen years. It’s about half of what she gets with me alive.”

I looked at him for a long moment, the whole time wondering if she was outside the door listening.

“So what do you want from me, Law? To pull the plug? I can’t do that. I can get you a lawyer if you want, but I’m not —”

“And she doesn’t treat me right, either.”

I paused again. I felt a tugging sensation in the pit of my guts. If what he was saying was true, then his life was more of a hell than I could imagine. I lowered my voice when I spoke.

“What does she do to you, Law?”

“She gets mad. She does things. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not her fault.”

“Listen, you want me to get a lawyer in here? I could also get a social services investigator.”

“No, no lawyers. That’ll take forever. No investigators. I don’t want that. And I don’t want you to get in any trouble, Harry, but what am I going to do? If I could pull the plug myself I would . . .”

He blew out a burst of air. The only gesture his body would allow him to make. I could only imagine his horrible frustration.

“This is no way to live, Harry. It isn’t living.”

I nodded. None of this had come up on the first visit. We had talked about the case, what he could remember about it. His case memory was coming back in chunks. It had been a difficult interview but there was no sense of self-loathing or desperation. No more depression than would be expected. I wondered if it had been the alcohol that had suddenly brought it out.

“I’m sorry, Law.”

It was all I could say. His eyes looked away, up to the television screen which was over my left shoulder.

“What time is it now, Harry?”

This time I checked my watch.