And still the bumper sticker issue rankles him. Surely there are some answers, somewhere. And beyond this, jewelry can be taken off and T-shirts changed and tattoos covered up. But a bumper sticker on a car is like a frozen facial expression, an irremovable mask, permanently fixed in place. And here’s the paradox, he thinks: that sharp-elbowed baldy surely put the sticker on his bumper as a gesture of life, of giddiness, or as a sort of railing against diminishment, against erasure; an effort to sharpen his definition in the world. But the lack of response to shifting circumstances is an attribute of death. Thus the bumper sticker—a frozen smile on a corpse now flowing down the asphalt river—is, by definition, an emblem of demise, an epitaph.

You get to death from everywhere, Nina will quip when he’ll tell her about his day on the phone later that evening.

Not just me, all of us.

Yes, she’ll say, all of us, but not here. Not now. Isn’t it you who likes to tell your clients how important it is to live in the here and now? Isn’t it your speech that all fears emerge from projecting backward—what have I done? Or forward—what am I going to do? Isn’t that your speech?

You’re not my client.

So what am I to you?

It is being investigated. We’re examining it.

Most of the clients at the Center for Anxiety Disorders share a certain look, a presence at once extinguished and buzzing. Their breathing is heavy, effortful and disorganized. Their eyes scan random magazines, retaining nothing. Their hands clasp the arms of their chairs as if a countdown has just begun at the end of which they will be launched into space in a terrifying heave. The psychologist is used to the haunted looks in the waiting room at all hours, the squashing of tissue paper, the wriggling fingers, and the terrified yawns. Still, when he entered the waiting room a week ago, exactly at four o’clock, he was taken aback by the sight of her. She was pale and slight like a refugee. Urban war paint was splashed over her face—black mascara, red lipstick. She stood up to greet him, fumbled forward on tall, clear heels. She did not look into his eyes but hung her gaze around his neck like a childish hug. He introduced himself and led her to the therapy room. She sat down on the sofa, dug noisily in her handbag, took out a cigarette and fumbled with it. A sharp scent of perfume hung over her. He sat in front of her and leafed through the forms; her handwriting, scribbled and hesitant, signaled sadness and neglect.