“Dr. Kyriakides wants to see you,” Susan said. “The changes you’re going through aren’t necessarily irreversible.”

“He told you that?”

“He can help.”

“No,” John said.

“He told me you might react this way. But there’s no one else you can go to. And hewants to help.”

“I think it’s beyond that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“No offense intended. But my guess is as good as Max’s.”

“But,” Susan began, and then faltered. The pain he was suffering—if it was in fact a physical pain—overtook him again. The smile that had grown small and ironic now disappeared altogether. His knuckles whitened against the arm of the chair; his face seemed to change, as if a great variety of emotions had overtaken him, a sudden shifting … she thought of wind across a wheatfield.

She was frightened now.

She said, “What can I do? Can I help?”

He shook his head. “You can leave.”

The rejection was absolute. It hurt.

Susan said, “Well, maybe you’re right—maybe he can’t help.”

It was her own moment of cruelty. But it caught his attention. She persisted, “But what if you’re wrong? There’s at least a chance. Dr. Kyriakides said—”

“ Fuck Dr. Kyriakides.”

Susan was quietly shocked. She stood up, blushing.

“No, wait,” John said. “Leave your number.”

“What?”

“Leave your number. Or your address, your hotel room. Write it down. There’s paper over there. I’ll call. I promise. We can talk it over. But right now—I need to be alone right now.”

She nodded, scribbled down her name and the hotel, moved to the door. She turned back with the idea of making some final entreaty, but it was pointless. He had dismissed her; she was as good as invisible. He sat with his eyes closed and his head pressed between his hands … containing himself, as if he might explode, Susan thought as she hurried down the walk into the cold October night; or shutting out the world, as if it might rush in and drown him.