The last of the uniforms finally leaves at nine o’clock. The head cop, Officer Michael Buchanan, and the investigator from the office of the medical examiner—a physician’s assistant named Zebadiah Walsh, although everyone here calls him Walsh—give us business cards and ask us to keep our phones handy for follow-up calls. Elizabeth laments the simplicity of leaving telephones off the hook.

“I can’t believe we gave up our land line just so we can be more enslaved to these things,” she says, and she opens the door and throws her cell phone across the patio, into the yard but barely—she has a terrible arm—and off she goes to her office. I rescue her phone from the grass. Not a scratch.

We take melatonin that doesn’t work. Come morning, Elizabeth’s in no condition to leave the house, so I offer to stay home with her for support. I even call Simone to tell her what happened, and for once she doesn’t give me shit about taking the day off. Doesn’t matter, though, because Elizabeth insists on heading to her office, so I guess there’s no point in me staying home alone. Jonah begs to return to his mother’s house. He’s a grown man and shouldn’t beg, but since he’s given me right of first refusal to his life, I deny his request. “We need your support,” I tell him, which isn’t entirely true. What we need is his margin of neutrality: a rubber bumper between my sharp edges and Elizabeth’s soft spot.

•  •  •

Were it not for all the muddy boot prints, one might never believe the degree of chaos we hosted last night, the rotting corpse we hosted for who-knows-how-long. There is quiet today. Calm. Empty mug in the sink. Folded newspaper atop the recycle bin. Quick kiss good-bye from my wife. Radio silence from my son. That goes here, this goes there. Order from chaos. Such is the way of the universe.

But there’s a blank strip of plaster on my garage wall, reminding me that the stepladder is still laying by our broken hydrangeas. And there’s a stain in the northeast corner, daring me to finish cleaning the gutter. Nick’s shoe is long gone, sealed in a plastic bag, labeled and in custody at the morgue, probably. My own work should be a distraction, at least. A relief. It is not. When I go to grab my lab coat from my staff lounge, the smell of rot makes me wretch. My guts flash back to the stench of death, and I decide PTSD is real after all.

“Jesus Christ.” I cover my face with one hand, but my eyes sting and my innards twist anyway.

Simone comes running, ready to rescue. “What is it? Oh God. Are you okay?”