The light changes, and I shift gently, not wanting to disturb him. “I got up and headed for the bathroom—it was one of those park bathrooms, log cabin type, forest green trim, very cozy—and I went in there and I saw myself in the mirror. And there were all these pulsating red blobs on my face. But I didn’t get upset. I was fascinated; I just kept looking.

“But then the sink started to melt off the wall. And I remember I all of a sudden felt this terrible sense of regret. I thought, I’ll never see the world right again. I went into the stall to pee—it seemed to take about an hour and a half; it seemed that was all there was in the world—and then I came back outside and I couldn’t find anyone. For a long time. And then … I don’t remember this part, but I guess someone found me. At any rate, I got back to the dorm. And that night, I lay in my bed thinking, oh please, let me just be done now, let me come down. I couldn’t get comfortable—no matter how I arranged myself. I was just too aware of everything. Finally, I lay flat on my back and held a pillow to my chest and stared at the ceiling, thinking, all I have to do is wait. I just have to let time pass and everything I think I’ve lost will come back to me. And my roomate—who had not died, of course—was weeping. Just crying and crying. And when I asked if she was okay, if she needed something, she said, “No. It’s good. It’s good.”

I shake my head, look over at him. “Wow. I haven’t thought of that for a long time.”

He nods. Barely.

“Chip? Are you all right?”

“It’s good, Myra.”

“But are you—”

“I’m all right! Really!” He sits up, looks out the window. “Hey, we’re by Carroll Lake, aren’t we?”

“Oh…. ten minutes or so. Why?”

“I’d like to go there.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“Right. So let’s hurry.”

• • •

The sun is starting to set when we arrive, flattening against the edge of the horizon. No one else is there. We sit on the sand, near the lifeguard’s chair. There is a wild wind blowing—the tree branches look as though they’re wrestling with each other.

Chip picks up a handful of sand, lets it sift through his fingers. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

I say nothing.

“Aren’t I?”

“It’s bad, what you have.”

“Have you ever heard of anyone with this recovering?”

“No. But I haven’t heard of everyone. Do you know what I mean? Sometimes I think there must be people walking around with terrible diagnoses who never go to the doctor. And who knows how long they live?”

“I’m fucked.”