“Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Rossetti. Dr. Larch told you I would be coming to see you?”

“You’re the psychiatrist?”

“Yes.”

“He told me, but I don’t want to see you. There is no reason.”

Denial, he thought, just splendid. He was bored with the stream of depressed patients who simply started crying and became quickly incoherent and self-pitying, their hands held out for pills to numb them. Although Tennyson had told him that Lily wasn’t like that, he hadn’t been convinced.

He said, all calm and smooth, “Evidently you do need me. You drove your car into a redwood.”

Had she? No, it just didn’t seem right. She said, “The road to Ferndale is very dangerous. Have you ever driven it at dusk, when it’s nearly dark?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t find you had to be very careful?”

“Of course. However, I never wrapped my car around a redwood. The Forestry Service is looking at the tree now, to see how badly it’s hurt.”

“Well, if I’m missing some bark, I’m sure it is, too. I would like you to leave now, Dr. Rossetti.”

Instead of leaving, he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. He crossed his legs. He weaved his plump, white fingers together. She hated his hands, soft, puffy hands, but she couldn’t stop looking at them.

“If you’ll give me just a minute, Mrs. Frasier. Do you mind if I call you Lily?”

“Yes, I mind. I don’t know you. Go away.”

He leaned toward her and tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away and stuck it beneath her covers.

“You really should cooperate with me, Lily-”

“My name is Mrs. Frasier.”

He frowned. Usually women-any and all women-liked to be called by their first name. It made them feel that he was more of a confidant, someone they could trust. It also made them more vulnerable, more open to him.