This was one of those apartments where the living room took a short left-hand turn into a dining L, which was separated from the open kitchen area by a pass-through. Two tall stools sat at the counter, providing an eating area. Living room furniture was the standard matching tweed sofa and armchair, plus a La-Z-Boy upholstered in dusty brown suede cloth. The seating was arranged around a coffee table with a television set on the opposite wall. The color scheme was beige on beige. The small dining table and four wooden chairs were relegated to the periphery to make room for a big drafting table, located by the window where the light was good. A corner desk held a computer with two floppy disk drives. The black-and-white monitor was turned on but presented no more than a blur from where he stood. Willard sank into the La-Z-Boy and placed his crutches to one side. On a table next to him, he had an oversize sketchbook and an assortment of drawing pencils.

Pete settled onto the couch. He unwound the scarf from his neck and held it loosely in his hands, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. Ruthie had knit him the scarf and he liked the feel because it reminded him of her. “Looks like you’ve suffered a world of hurt,” he said. “Mind if I ask what happened?”

He wouldn’t ordinarily have made mention of the young man’s condition, but he didn’t want to spend the entire meeting avoiding reference to something so obvious. Maybe this was a product-liability suit, in which case he could add an automatic five thousand dollars to his bill. He’d get paid whether the jury found for the plaintive or not. If the plaintive prevailed and was awarded punitive damages, it might net him a handsome bonus.

“Automobile accident when I was seventeen. Car went off the road and hit a tree. My best friend was driving and he died instantly.” No mention of rain-slick roads or high speeds or alcohol.

“One of those unfortunate twists of fate,” Pete suggested, hoping the comment didn’t sound too trite.

Willard said, “I know this sounds odd, but if it hadn’t been for the accident, I wouldn’t have felt so compelled to succeed.”

“Not odd at all. I noticed your drafting table. You’re an architect?”

Willard shook his head. “Graphic design and illustration with a specialty in comic art.”

Pete was at a loss. “You’re talking comic books?”

“Basically, though it’s a much broader field.”

“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance. I didn’t realize a fellow could make a living off comic books. You have formal training for a job like that?”