Nick watched his mother’s body decay, her mind and emotions held hostage by a broken machine. He watched her slow demise, her agony, her dehumanization and demoralization and disgrace, and Nick watched his father carry that shame—internalized and mutated into its own disease: the bullet hole in a widower’s head—and buckle beneath its weight, violently abandoning his only son, to whom he bequeathed this spectacular shame, thus compounded. Nick inherited secrets and sickness, self-loathing and lies, fears of breaking and being broken, fears of loving someone enough to pass his inheritance along. Surely, in this legacy, there is potential for my sustained relief.

I fold the bed into a couch, place its cushions in their proper places. I dress in yesterday’s clothes, piled on the floor, and sit at my desk, opening my computer to weed through the internet to build my case: statistics pulled from limited research, testimonials, conspiracy theories, drug trials. I mentally flag words and phrases and obtuse data. The goal: to radiate dizzying authority, too fluent to allow for doubt. For good measure, I read up on New Age quacks who claim to have the cure. Nick might like the clinic in Tijuana. Maybe he’d stay in Tijuana. To assist in Nick’s wallowing, I print a few self-help articles. Psychobabble about coping with bad news. “Managing Emotional Shock.” “The Science of Acceptance.” Good grief.

The early morning sun is hiding behind a thick fur coat of gray sky. Storm clouds without rain. Soft gray waves. I step outside and hear the wind thrashing trees, and it sounds like the sea, and enveloped by sea sounds and rippling clouds overhead, it feels as though I could be treading on the bottom of the ocean when I cross the yard to visit Nick Carpenter one last time.

He answers after the first knock. The smell of fresh coffee greets me when Nick does. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and baggy gym shorts. Unlaced sneakers. Wild hair.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” He gestures for me to enter, but I shake my head. This will be quick.

“It’s about yesterday,” I tell him. “It’s serious.”

He steps outside. Behind him, the bed is neatly made, the nightstand clear. No water glasses, no picture books. He asks, “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t have put it together if you hadn’t come in for a full exam—your foot falling asleep on the boat, or your occasional trips and falls. If I hadn’t read your questionnaire or noticed your muscle spasms yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought of it in a million years.”

“What are you talking about?”