On Wednesday morning I wake up thinking, What? And then I remember. I go into the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror. Well, clear skin, I have that, I’ve always had that. Straight teeth. I stare a little longer, then go stand on the scale. I could lose weight; that’s always been pretty easy for me. Five pounds, no problem, I can lose five pounds in a week. I put my lipstick on carefully. I could get some good mascara, too.

I stop for coffee on my way to Rose’s. My favorite Dunkin’ Donuts is just at the end of my block. It’s always open, owned by a three-generation Russian family that barely speaks a word of English, but they are all remarkably friendly. Once when I was having trouble sleeping, I walked down there in the middle of the night in my pajamas (sweatpants and T-shirt, who could tell?) and I shot the breeze with the mother, Katrina, who works nights with her husband—the grandmother works mornings, the daughter evenings. The husband was in the back making glazed donuts and the wife sat down with me and had a cup of cocoa. We didn’t talk a lot, but our eye contact was comforting. Katrina did say, “Where is you dog?” and I told her Frank was sleeping. He was, too. He wouldn’t get up.

This morning, the shop is crowded, but I see that the grandmother has two girls helping her. I open the car door, say, “Stay, Frank,” and then remember he’s not with me. I don’t bring him when I have to admit someone—filling out all the forms takes at least an hour. And of course you don’t want to bring your dog until you’ve asked the patient if it’s all right. Rose Banovitz is afraid of dogs, but all my other patients really like him. I told my agency they should put Frank on the payroll. Once, they did: At Christmas time, they cut a check for him. “Pay to the order of Frank Dog,” it said, and the amount was five million dollars. It’s in his scrapbook.

When I get to Rose’s, I see that a few of the lights are out in her hallway; it’s hard for me to see when I make my way down to her apartment. The cooked cabbage smell of the place seems even stronger in the dimness. I wonder how long it will take for someone to replace the bulbs. Last time, it took five months. When the lights were finally back on, it felt like Las Vegas, walking down that hallway. I’m sure the cockroaches were very upset.