On the eighth day of this funereal existence Milo appeared at the door wanting to ask me questions. He held a notepad in his hands, just like an analyst. Only he didn’t look like an analyst: a big, droopy, shaggy-haired fellow in slept-in clothes.

“Dr. Alex Delaware?” He held up his badge.

“Yes.”

He introduced himself and stared at me. I was dressed in a ratty yellow bathrobe. My untrimmed beard had reached rabbinic proportions and my hair looked like electrified Brillo. Despite thirteen hours of sleep I looked and felt drowsy.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Doctor. Your office referred me to your home number, which was out of order.”

I let him in and he sat down, scanning the place. Foot-high stacks of unopened mail littered the dining-room table. The house was dark, lirapes drawn, and smelled stale. “Days of Our Lives” flickered on the tube.

He rested his notepad on one knee and told me the interview was a formality for the coroner’s inquest. Then he had me rehash the night I’d found the body, interrupting to clarify a point, scratching and jotting and staring. It was tediously procedural and my mind wandered often, so that he had to repeat his questions. Sometimes I talked so softly he asked me to repeat my answers.

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