Dr. Foss flashes his engaging smile and says, “Of course not,” and ties the turquoise smock behind my back. The way he stands and walks and goes about his work brings to mind either an expensively trained royal valet or a well-educated aristocratic spy. He’s one of those very rare gentlemen who would remain on the deck of a sinking ship until every woman and child had been winched to safety. He’s even kind enough to push the elastic band of my face mask a little higher on the back of my head. Gingerly, as if I might explode.

I use my elbow to pump some disinfectant gel from the dispenser mounted on the tiled wall and rub it into my hands, which are shaking. Suntanned hands with ink stains on them, quivering like little wings.

“Be patient with yourself,” he says gently.

Ha, me of all people! I’m never patient with myself. Most of the time I don’t even like myself. I push the button again so I don’t have to meet Foss’s gaze.

“Every patient needs someone to believe in them. Believe in Mr. Skinner, Mrs. Tomlin. If he has a good reason to wake up, then . . .”

I feel like asking Dr. Foss which book of motivational axioms he’s quoting. I want to yell at him that I’m not a good reason for Henri Skinner—not good enough, in any case. After a totally weird three-year, on-off relationship during which I sometimes didn’t see Henri for months on end, he made it abundantly clear to me two years ago that I wasn’t the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

It was the first time I had said to Henri, “I love you. I want you, forever and beyond, in this life and every other.”

He replied, “I don’t want you.” And the world went dark.

I’ve only just stopped feeling ashamed. I’ve only just stopped missing him. I’ve only just controlled the yearning for which there are no words and no logic. I’ve only just begun to contemplate the possibility of starting a new life, with another man. And now Henri has erupted into my days, my nights, and my desires again.

When I heard the police officer say his name—“Do you know Henri Malo Skinner?”—three memories came flooding back: the heavy, fluid heat of his body on mine; that night on the beach beneath the green shooting stars when we told each other about what we’d been like as children; and his expression as he walked out.