“You think I’m full of shit.”

I got up and touched the tank. “This isn’t hard to miss, Gretchen.”

She burst into sobs.

She allowed me to dry her eyes. Grabbed me around my neck and held on for a while before sinking back, wheezing.

“Thank you. For not letting go. Everyone lets go.” Sniff. “No one takes care of me, I’m going to be lost.”

“I can talk to someone about hospice care.”

“That’s not what I mean, I’ve done that already, there’s a service, visiting nurses, they’re totally into pain control, all that good stuff. I meant … whatever … why not more dope?”

“What then?”

“People don’t like me,” she said. “I’d say it was my fault, but it’s always been that way. As long as I can remember.”

“I like you.”

“Fucking liar.”

“You do make it kind of hard.”

She glared at me. Burst into boggy laughter. “Oh, you are something. Stud of the psyche.”

I took her hand. “It sounds as if you’ve done everything practical that you need to do. But my hunch is Chad knows a whole lot more than you think he does. I can meet with him to try to get a sense of what’s on his mind. If there are fallacies, we’ll correct them—”

“What kind of fallacies?”

“Sometimes kids blame themselves for a parent’s illness.”

“No way, impossible, he’d never do that.”

“You may be right but it’s worth exploring.”

She squeezed my knuckles. Slid out of grasp. “But I may also be wrong because what the hell do I know about kids and you’ve worked with thousands, right? You really think Chad’s blaming himself?”

“I don’t think anything but it needs to be looked at.”

“Okay, okay … but I do need a guarantee that you’ll be here for me. That’s why I wanted you to have the money up front, I need you … need you … tethered to me. ’Cause let’s face it, money talks, bullshit walks.”

Snatching the red envelope, she dropped it in my lap. “Take it, dammit, or I won’t sleep at night and you’d be harming a poor pathetic terminal cancer patient.”

I picked up the envelope.

“Thank you,” she said. “Not for that. For drying my damn eyes.”

Chapter 10

he girl in white was scheduled for the evening broadcast but got cut. Heavy news day: two separate actresses beaten up by their boyfriends.

The following morning at nine a.m., Milo and I sat in my kitchen watching a network affiliate flash the drawing for ten seconds.

He said, “Blinked and missed it,” went and helped himself to a half-gallon milk carton from the fridge. “With their ratings, no big deal. ’Bout as useful as underwear on an eel.”