Afternoon. The psychologist sits at the piano in his living room and plays. His fingers, as if awakened from a long sleep, walk delicately across the shiny keys. A jazz melody sounds, soft and halting, rising to dance around the room. Don’t play what’s there, Miles Davis said, play what’s not there.

Nina, a whisper dissolves inside his head, Nina.

He looks up. On the piano, in a dark wooden frame, stands a picture of a smiling little girl hugging a pink teddy bear. The psychologist hears a rustle outside the front door and recognizes the sound of the mailman, wrestling as usual with the rusted mailbox. He gets up and walks over to the door. He steps outside, and as he pulls out the stack of mail he notices a small brown box amid the usual advertising brochures, coupon books, and assorted solicitations. He goes in, tosses the rest of the mail onto the kitchen counter, and looks the box over. Who would send him a package? There is no return address, and his own address is scribbled on the box in a handwriting that looks familiar to him, although he cannot place it. He tears off the outer paper, opens the box and pulls out a small porcelain cow with dark spots on her white body and large pink udder. The psychologist studies it closely, turns it around in his hand. Moo, he whispers to himself, moo. He walks around his apartment to find a place for it. His eyes wander around the living room shelves, the kitchen counter, the windowsill in his office, the square end table by his bed. He returns to the living room, walks over to the piano and places the cow near the girl’s picture. He steps back, looks at the arrangement, nods slightly, and sits back at the piano and plays. The notes rise, clear, effortless and spare from the depths of the old piano and for a moment his spirit rises with them, weightless and without bounds like sunlight. For a moment he’s absorbed in something that feels to him like peace.