“Of course not, it’s all worked out, you are staying here.” Oh God, I think, he doesn’t remember, he’s getting confused.

“No,” he says. “Here.” He pats the bed, and Frank moves closer to him.

“Oh!” Who knows why people ask for the things they do. Who knows why certain things suddenly bring you comfort. “Sure. I’ll go down to the sofa.” Chip has never had the pleasure of sleeping with a dog; I’ll give that to him.

“No,” he says. “I meant I wanted to stay here with you.”

I swallow, say nothing.

“Just for a while.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Is this your side?”

“Well … Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll move over.”

He climbs over Frank to the other side of the bed, punches the pillow and lies down. “There’s no night stand over here,” he says, looking around. “No light.”

“I haven’t exactly needed one.”

“You always sleep on the same side?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” He looks over at me, smiles.

I smile back, then climb awkwardly back into bed. I am overly conscious of every part of myself. My legs and arms feel as stiff as if they were cast. I lean up against the headboard, smooth the sheets over me. My heart is knocking in my chest. Frank, panting happily, makes the bed shake, and for some reason, this embarrasses me.

There is a long moment of silence, and then Chip says, “Why don’t you lie down?”

“Well, I … thought you wanted to talk a little, maybe.”

“You can talk when you’re lying down.”

I start laughing. “You know what? You know what just came into my head? ‘That wouldn’t be professional.’”

“Right,” he says, smiling. Lightning flashes, and we both look out the window. A loud crack of thunder follows, and Frank jumps off the bed and crawls under it again.

“God,” Chip says. “Quite a storm!”

“I know.”

“Did they forecast this?”

“I don’t think so.”

He looks over at me. “Nobody knows anything.”

“Well.”

“I don’t think they do.”

“They’re right a lot of the time.”

“They’re wrong a lot, too.”

“Yeah. They are.”

“You know,” Chip says. “I first went to the doctor a couple of months ago. I was having terrible headaches. The guy told me it was my sinuses and gave me something for pain. It didn’t help, so I went back. He gave me stronger medication. It still didn’t help, so I went to another guy. I told him what was going on, and he said, oh hell, it’s not your sinuses, it’s stress. He put me on antidepressants. Then I went a third doctor, who actually might have gone to med school.”

“It’s hard sometimes,” I say.

“What is?”

“It’s not always easy to make a diagnosis right away. Most of the time, it isn’t … that.”

“Shouldn’t they make sure, though?”