I push open the stall door and the two men look at me, startled. One has his fist pulled back, about to hit the other, who lies on the floor. They look like the cover of a Hardy Boys book or a poster for an old movie. I can’t help laughing.

The bug man blinks up at me. He has a smear of dirt across his nose. I hope it’s dirt, anyway. “Hi, Ted,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. I give him my hand. The guy who lost his cufflinks and knocked him down is already out the door. Sometimes, very occasionally, my size works in my favor.

I help the bug man off the floor. The back of his shirt is slick and brown. “Ugh,” he says, resigned. “Maybe we should go. I think he’ll be back, maybe with friends. He seems to have those, inexplicably.”

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”

The road is a tunnel of amber light. I can’t remember which way my house is and it doesn’t seem very important. “What shall we do?” I ask.

“I want to drink some more,” the bug man says. We walk toward a lighted sign in the distance. It seems to advance and recede as we approach but in the end we get there—it is a gas station, which sells beer, so we buy some from the sleepy man who minds the store. Then we sit at the table on the roadside, by the pumps. It’s quiet. Only the occasional car goes by.

I give the bug man a paper napkin. “There’s something on your face,” I say. He cleans himself up without comment.

“We’re having a beer together,” I say. “It is so weird!”

“I guess that’s right,” he says. “This kind of thing is not supposed to happen between therapist and client, obviously. Are you going to keep coming to see me, Ted?”

“Yes,” I say. Of course I’m not.

“Good. I was going to bring this up at our next session, but you should give me your real address, you know. For our files. I checked and the one you gave me isn’t even a house. It’s a 7-Eleven.”

“Made a mistake,” I say. “I get numbers wrong sometimes.”

He just waves a hand as if it’s not important.

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“That’s not how it works,” he says curtly.

“Why did that guy think you had his cufflinks?”

“I’m not sure. Can you imagine me stealing them?”

“No,” I say, because I really can’t. “Why did you pick your job? Isn’t it boring, listening to people for hours and hours?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I’m hoping it’s about to get much more interesting.”