While others were dumping American stocks, Desmond was buying. He returned to his criteria for identifying a successful company: a founder who instinctively knew what his customers wanted, and a tightly managed operation. He loaded up on stock in Amazon and Apple.

On the news every night, he watched sabers rattle and the world go to war. He was mad as hell too. He even considered applying at the NSA or CIA. But he barely had the energy to get out of bed. He seemed to get worse every month.

Peyton saw it—was worried about it.

“What if you start your own company?”

“Doing what? Why? There’s no point. I have no ideas. No drive to do it.”

“You could start a nonprofit. Child welfare. Find something you care about and go for it.”

He thought about it for a few weeks, researched it, and began volunteering at a group home in San Jose.

That helped him pass the time, but it wasn’t enough. Deep down, he knew the truth: he was never going to change. He would never be able to love Peyton the way she loved him—with reckless abandon. It wasn’t fair to her. She deserved more.

In the summer of 2002, he sat in Dr. Janson’s office.

“This isn’t working.”

“It takes time, Desmond.”

“I’ve given it time. I’ve been coming here for over two years now. I’ve tried medication, exercise, volunteering. Hell, we even retraced the tragic events of my childhood. I’m not getting better. I don’t feel any better than I did the day I walked in here.”

“Please realize that every person has emotional limits. Your… range may simply be very confined. It’s also possible that two years isn’t enough time.”

“You want to know what I actually do feel?”

Janson raised his eyebrows.

“Guilt.”

The man looked confused.

“I feel guilty because I know she’ll never leave me. And I’ll never make her as happy as she deserves to be.”

That afternoon, Desmond packed his things. The gifts from Peyton he placed very carefully in a large trunk. He scanned all their pictures, printed copies of them, and returned them to their frames. He waited in the living room, and when she got home, they sat on the couch, feet from each other, her nervous, clearly aware something was very wrong. He said the lines he’d rehearsed a dozen times.