Instead, I told him about the house, and the laboratory downstairs. I told him how Lizzie had so cunningly arranged to have it built out when neighbors were absent or otherwise occupied, and when perfectly ordinary excuses could be made for the equipment. They know we’re rich. They think we’re strange. Why would it surprise anyone if we installed extensive plumbing to upgrade the home to modern conveniences? And what of it, should we import a heater for all the water and install it in the basement? And so forth, and so on.

I also told him, in a moment of weakness or brandy, about my masculine persona.

Maybe it was silly, but the moment felt right and I made my confession. I told him I was a man, or that I had a man’s brain—if that thought suited him better. I had another life, one on paper and sometimes in print across the globe, in places where I would never likely travel.

I tried to slow myself down, to keep some of it to myself, and maybe if Lizzie hadn’t been downstairs with a mop and some hydrochloric acid, she would’ve stopped me. It might have been a favor, or then again, I might have hated her for it.

It felt so good, that’s all—to let someone else hear it. And, after a moment of astonishment, even believe it. I credit him that much, and credit him richly: He did not argue with me, or scoff and declare that I must surely be mistaken. He only asked after the subject matter I pursued, and I told him all about how I’d gone about creating this second person, through which I lived a whole different life. In my imagination, if nowhere else.

He gently told me that he put more stock in imagination than many medicinal men, as he’d seen firm (if irrational) hope change the course of disease in patients, at times. I almost laughed, but it came out in a choked little sound instead. He asked me what was wrong.

“Sir, I do not argue with regard to the healing powers of optimism, but if they could change every patient’s world, then my own would be much greater in scope these days.”

“But I did not mean—,” he said hurriedly.

I did not let him finish. “No, I understand what you meant. I suppose I am only sad, because I do believe you’re right—but you are not right about everyone, and sadly, I fall into the group for whom no amount of imagination will restore my health.”

“You shouldn’t assume it. Science moves onward, upward, and in a thousand directions at once. Every year we see greater progress in every field. One day, you will find yourself restored.”

“Don’t make promises, Doctor. I hate promises. I am all too aware how imprecise science can be. As imprecise as faith, at least.”