Unless you happen to be in possession of a miniature guillotine, a proper finger-lopping requires three participants. (Don’t bother asking a doctor for help. There’s something called the Hippocratic oath.) Participant number one supplies the doomed digit, laying his hand palm side up on a wooden cutting board that’s been thoroughly doused with alcohol. Participant number two positions the sterilized, super-sharpened knife over the joint between the intermediate and proximal phalanges of participant number one’s ring finger. Participant number three holds the brick, rock, or other suitably heavy object that he will slam down on the knife’s spine.

Have plenty of antiseptic on hand. An elastic tourniquet to slow the bleeding is optional. (Apparently no one’s ever bled out after losing a finger.)

Idly, I stood in front of the wall, my first clenched and drawn back, blocking thoughts of Robin from my head, imagining instead asking Milton and Arno to assist (the only question was who would pass out first), and wondering how much pain I could stand.

But the momentous impact of Robin’s letter began to sink in. I started to think of how I wished I could be angry at her. How much I wanted to be angry at her. But I couldn’t muster the oomph. It was my own goddamn fault. Why hadn’t I taken her hints — about drugs and school — more seriously? Why couldn’t I have tried a little harder to be the person she wanted me to be?

It wouldn’t have taken much of an effort.

I’d blown it. Lost the best girl I ever had. The only one I’d ever loved. I wondered if I should write back. Could I beg her to give me one last chance? She did write that in a lot of ways she still loved me.

And she didn’t say she loved Samuel.

But she’s so levelheaded and thoughtful. So circumspect and deliberate. She had to know the effect the letter would have, which means she wouldn’t have sent it unless she was sure. Besides, upon careful review, one could see where to read between the lines: There’s something I haven’t told you, but now I have to.

Why now? Take a wild guess.

It’s always been an innocent summer thing between us. But this summer it’s changed and gotten more serious.

She’s with him, soul and body.

That’s when my fist made blunt contact with the bedroom wall.

It hurts like hell. Note to self: when chopping off finger, take plenty of painkillers first.

Standing in the doorway, Mom looks from the dent in the wall to me. “Are you okay?” she asks.

I nod, even though we both know I’m not.