As soon as she was safe in her hotel room, Vicki threw down her luggage so she could finally remove the heavy guitar case from her back. She set it down carefully on one of the room’s two double beds. She chose the bed closer to the window, out of respect for Hannah’s small bladder. Vicki had learned during their many weekend road trips in college that Hannah was happiest when she was given the bed closest to the toilet.

Vicki leaned over the guitar case and unlocked both latches so she could inspect what was inside, which was not a guitar at all.

Instead of an instrument, the case held a lamp, which Vicki removed delicately, keeping it level as if it were a bowl of scalding soup. She brought it to the wall outlet next to the bed and set it down on the floor. She then plugged it in and sat crossed-legged in front of it. Once the lamp had warmed up, Vicki leaned over it so its invisible rays shined up at her face. Then she reached over for the remote control on the nearby end table.

Vicki’s therapist had told her not to do this, that watching television was a bad idea—especially while she was having quality time with the lamp. Dr. Howard couldn’t say for sure that the light and sound coming from the screen negated the effectiveness of the lamp, but they certainly didn’t help the lamp do its job.

“Television is part of the problem, not the solution,” Dr. Howard had said in his central New York accent, which was a blend of Midwestern o’s and New York City a’s. “You do this all day and all night. This is depression. No more reality shows. No more cop shows. No more shows, period.”

With that in mind, Vicki quickly turned off the hotel television before she could even see what was on. She’d actually grown used to living a mostly TV-free life since she’d started seeing Dr. Howard a year ago. He was the one who had encouraged her to buy the seasonal affective disorder lamp.

Ironically, the only time she felt drawn to the remote control was when she was with sitting with the SAD lamp. It was so boring, staring at a lamp for a full hour each day. It wasn’t easy during lamp time for Vicki to practice cognitive behavioral ther-apy, Dr. Howard’s prescription for ignoring all the things that upset her.

Vicki had purchased the lamp about six months ago for two hundred and fifty dollars, from an online medical-supply company recommended by Dr. Howard. There was no guarantee that the light would change Vicki’s life, Dr. Howard had explained, but it was worth a try and seemed to be much safer than upping her dosage of antidepressants for the third time.

The lamp came with its own case, which was light enough and easy to carry—perfect for Vicki’s frequent business trips. The only problem was that the case was emblazoned with the lamp’s brand name. “SAD-Lite,” it said, in thick black letters.