0.

It would be a good thing if you considered… well… taking it off. Have you given any thought to that lately?

there is silence, and a small buzzing in my head. quiet, hardly there. it’s enough to concentrate on. it’s not coming from anywhere. maybe loose static, floating around.

looking for a home.

I know it’s hard to lose something when you’ve had it for so long, but you really don’t need it any more. Not physically, at least. The attachment is entirely psychological, based in damaging emotions.

what is he saying? is he talking to me? i feel like i should be listening to him but he’s not saying anything.

You no longer need to count. Trust me.

i don’t even know you

124.

We lived on a quiet street when I was a boy, a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. There were very few cars along the roads. If a kid spotted one coming by, it was his inherent duty to holler at the top of his lungs, alerting all his friends, acquaintances, and semi-enemies, that they might stand on the sidewalks and watch. We kept track of the cars, tallying them up as a group, how many sedans we’d seen that week, how many trucks, how many two-doors, how many SUVs. It was a hobby, I guess. I always had the tally before anyone else. Never took me long at all.

There were twelve trees along the left side of the street, twelve and a half if you counted the Andersons’ seedling which was hunched by itself in a pot. Destined to birchhood, it slumped wearily, like the weight of this inheritance was already too much for it. When it had been there a day, it had nine leaves, dangly weak little things. After two days it had ten; after five, seventeen.

Sue told me that I ought to talk. She was always saying this to me: Talk, talk, talk, talk, you really should talk more. People want to know what you’re thinking, and they can’t if you don’t tell them.

I told her to shut up. She looked surprised for a second, then burst out laughing. I could divide the sound of her laugh into two beats—there was a snorting sort of inhale which she would hold for six point five seconds, chuckling, followed by a choking exhale and a wheeze. It was more attractive than that description.

I count things. Everything.

If I see a rock, and there are other rocks nearby, I must count those rocks. All of them.

I am really very good at it. Once when I was a little kid I watched a television show about adventures in outer space, with cleft-chinned men clad in intrepid space suits, you know, one of those annoying educational shows that parents tell their kids to watch so they’ll learn something. I was interested mainly by the stars outside the shuttle, nothing but tiny points of light, far off in the distance.

How many are there?

This was from my mother, who came into the room at some point during the show and peered over my shoulder. She knew what I was up to.

Twenty-three thousand, six hundred eighty-one, I said. Oops. Eighty-two.

I was right, and I know this because I went back five years later and watched the show again to make certain. By the time the credits rolled, I’d seen seventy-five thousand, four hundred ten.

Thirty-six people, if you are wondering, participated in the making of that particular show, and eighteen of those were Czechoslovakian. I know this because their last names were of Czechoslovakian origin, which I know because I did research after the show was over to make certain.

I like knowing that things are for certain. It’s comforting.

633.

I went to a college for the legally blind, but I can see.

My parents finagled this because I had a letter from one of the leading psychiatrists in the country. The letter said that I was certifiably disabled. Apparently, I suffered from a condition commonly known as Lloyd’s Percensitis, a word containing precisely eleven letters, broken down to percens-, which is derived from the Latin percenseo, or to count over, and contains seven letters, and -itis, which means, essentially, inflammation of and contains four letters. In short, I suffered from inflammation of counting.

I have counted three hundred thousand, eight hundred, ninety-nine things. If I were to list these things, that list would include the following:

words in the book The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

drops of condensation on the side of a half-empty bottle of Miller Lite

blades of grass

black ants

desks in a classroom

stars visible from a kids’ educational show

teeth

grains of sand

people

small children

motorized vehicles

A lot of things. Eleven, actually.

Have you wondered what the numbers indicate yet? That’s good. That means you have a curious mind. Maybe by the end of everything you’ll have figured out the answer. Puzzles are like math problems; there’s a solution out there, only waiting for someone to say, Why didn’t I think of that? Solutions are better when they wait quietly and occupy themselves without making themselves known, doing stuff like crosswords. Solutions that run at you waving their arms wildly are no fun at all. You only enjoy finding something when you’ve looked hard for it.

Gay is another word for homosexual. It is a little cruder, but not as crude as other words, like fag or fairy or queen. I’m not a homosexual man: I had a girlfriend six years ago, and we were very fond of each other. She’s gone now, though. I killed her.

Does anyone know who Lloyd is? I would really like to know.

984.

Yesterday my therapist told me that Lloyd, which contains five letters, is a shorter version of the name Lloyd Jonathan Anderson, which contains twenty-one letters and was the name of an American man. This man was the first man known to modern science to suffer from percensitis, which is why modern science dedicated percensitis to him. Once modern science discovered it, that is. I find that I sympathize with his story.

Lloyd Jonathan Anderson was born on July 6th, 1965, in a small Midwestern town commonly called Shitville, nicknamed for its significantly large shit output, output thanks to its significantly large number of cows. When Lloyd became the newest member of its population, Shitville, or Scottsville, contained two thousand, five hundred forty-three longhorn steers. And they all shat. Often.

I don’t know Lloyd’s opinion of Shitville, unfortunately. I’ve heard all this secondhand, so to speak, and very few truly interesting or important things last. History focuses on numbers: Thirty-five thousand men were killed in this war, which was fought over four hundred square feet of worthless land, but no one remembers the name of the seventh of those men, or the name of his pet terrier, or what kind of eggs he had for breakfast that morning.

That’s the way history works.

Lloyd, like me, counted everything. His percensitis was incredibly severe. Because there were so many longhorn steers in Shitville, Lloyd, as a teenager, spent hours wandering in the streets, counting them. With each fall of a hoof, the steers sent up tremendous puffs of yellow dust. The dust collected in Lloyd’s hair, in every possible orifice—his eyes, nose, ears—and in the crooks of his fingers and the bends of his elbows and knees, so that he drifted home smelling and tasting entirely of beef. When his parents learned that he was constantly compelled to count things, they panicked and began calling famous, costly doctor after famous, costly doctor, demanding to know what was wrong with their son. But not a single doctor could tell them.

You might say that suicidal tendencies are a symptom of percensitis. Living doesn’t seem like the greatest idea when you can’t look at a magnificent sunset without wondering how many other people are looking at the sun too. Percensitis takes all the fun out of life. It is truly a fun-sucking disease.

Lloyd Anderson hung himself from the rafters of his father’s barn in 1981, five thousand, eight hundred and sixty-nine days after he was born. In 1992, four thousand fifteen days after that, percensitis was officially discovered and christened. In 2000, two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-two days after that, I entered the world, a ready-made abacus. I am currently nine thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one point seventy-five days old—in years, I’m twenty-seven, accounting, of course, for leap years, because the extra point two five is really very important. Most people don’t like doing complex calculations with days. I’m not sure why.

1,480.

I promise no one’s going to hurt you if you take it off.

I don’t want to.

why can’t he just leave me alone?

You’re talking—that’s good. That’s a big improvement. But you still don’t feel really safe, do you? You still believe you need to keep it around.

where is the buzzing?

Your fiancé came by today—do you remember that? You were pretty out of it, and I couldn’t let her see you. She understands. I had a talk with her over lunch; she knows recoveries don’t happen right away. She’s willing to give you all the time you need.

I don’t need time.

finally there’s silence. i can almost hear the sound again. it’s such a beautiful sound. i wish it would stay forever. there is nothing to count with this sound. only melody.

I’m glad you started using your recorder, Jonah. Have you found that it’s helped you? Diaries are a great way of expressing yourself. They’re a sort of spirit-talking. Words are certainly a better therapist than I’ll ever be.

i don’t like your laugh.

Well, Jonah, I think our session’s up for today. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Same time, same place.

sue cannot come to visit me. sue is dead.

doesn’t he know that?

1,701.

I am a good man. Murder doesn’t make me a bad man. I was very sorry afterward.

It was mainly her fault anyway, which, of course, doesn’t mean it was okay—but that does mean it wasn’t mainly my fault. That means I’m still a good man.

We met in college. As I said, I went to a college for the legally blind: it was called, aptly enough, Delcroix’s School for the Visually Impaired. Delcroix contains eight letters and is a technically incorrect name, being a combination of del, which is a Spanish word containing three letters, and croix, which is a French word containing five letters. If you ignore the inaccuracies, it is loosely translated to the cross, which contains eight letters. Crosses are holy things, and I am a Christian man. Or I was. I hope I still am. It was mainly her fault.

I told her from the beginning that getting to know me would not benefit her, but she wouldn’t listen, and she died.

Susanna Abigail Rodriguez isn’t an easy name to learn when you have to work with Braille. We called her Sue for short. She learned her full name in ten days, eleven hours, and six seconds, and her nickname in only forty-three minutes. I learned her full name in eight days, nine hours, thirteen minutes, and two seconds, with her hand wrapped around mine even though that was unnecessary, our fingers twined, feeling the vague scratch of her false nails. She smelled like coconut crème pie and white lilies. When her hair brushed my cheek, twelve strands at a time, the ones that persistently escaped a tie, I wondered how anything in the world could possibly be so beautiful.

Murder doesn’t make me a bad man. It doesn’t.

1,997.

My therapist took my recorder today and listened to the tape. I couldn’t see him and wasn’t exactly sure how he looked at me, but he was annoyed, so I’m guessing he glared. He said, Jonah, why don’t you try starting from the beginning? A kind of memoir. Maybe telling things in order will help. Jumping around the way you’ve been, he said, and I know he was displeased, is more confusing than anything. Why don’t you work on organization? This is a good start, but why don’t you work on organization?

I have nothing else to do.

I don’t know if I counted things when I was first born. I don’t think I knew numbers then. But I do remember the mobile my mother bought me. It was one of those that spins, with small fuzzy animals dangling and making tinny music, and she hung it over my crib. I took to it immediately.

Look, he’s watching! Do you think he likes it?

This was my mother.

Sure he does—see the way he’s smiling?

This was my father.

They were doting parents. I loved that mobile. When I grew older I would count it, over and over and over—one hippo, two giraffe, three elephant, four alligator, five penguin—while it spun. Counting something that spun was more of a challenge, because occasionally I’d get mixed up and have to start over. Eventually I muttered the numbers aloud to myself. There were twelve bars in my crib, six per wall.

Eight of my hobbies as a young child were as follows:

counting cars

counting leaves

counting blades of grass

counting rocks

counting dogs

counting books

counting words

counting toys

And so forth. I had a lot of hobbies. I wasn’t very fond of them. They were things I had to do, not things I wanted to do. Worst of all, they drove my father nuts—especially at mealtime. Food was one of my favorite things, but not because I liked to eat it.

What’s he doing? Honey, what’s he doing with those noodles?

He’s counting them, Tom. Quiet. Just let him be, okay?

I had a good time at school today. I aced my science test. Hundred percent. (That was my older brother, Zach.)

I can’t stand watching him with that food. He’s not even eating it.

He’ll get around to it. Give him a break.

Why is he always counting everything? Is he insane? Should we ship him off to an asylum? Get him a padded room?

No, he just needs to work things out for himself. You’re not helping.

My teacher says I’m very smart.

Damn it, Jonah, stop playing with your dinner and eat!

Dad?

Jonah, I’m not going to tell you again—

Honey—

It’s always Jonah this, Jonah that. Jonah, don’t count this. Jonah, eat. Jonah, pay attention. Jonah, talk to me. I hate you. You don’t care about me.

Zach—

Jonah, don’t you run away from me. Get out from under that chair—

I wish you weren’t even my parents. And you know what I wish most of all?

Zach—

I wish Jonah was dead!

2,530.

I’ve decided not to organize things any more. I gave the tape to my therapist, and he said he was proud of me, that I had done a very nice job and that my progress was altogether impressive. But I don’t want to remember things like that.

I run fingers along the walls every day and count the ceramic tiles, over and over, until I’m sure I’ll never forget that there are eighty-nine, with an average of one hundred fifty-four dimples apiece, again. This bores me. I want to remember things that are pleasant, things like Sue, or like my old friends, Rob and Mike. Sue and Rob were completely blind—Mike wasn’t, and he thought my blindfolds were the stupidest thing he’d ever seen. Rob gave me my blindfolds, starting with a used sock.

I had three friends.

Mike drank and smoked, and we always knew when he was coming because we smelled the alcohol and the nicotine. The tips of his fingers were yellow. I wore a silver cross around my neck in college, sort of to remind me that I was a good Christian man, and Mike laughed about it. He thought it was just hilarious. He was an angry drunk—once we got into a fight, before my blindfolds, and I gave him a black eye because he had tried to hurt Sue and I always tried to be chivalrous, and he grabbed my cross and broke the chain. It rolled across the street and fell through the sewer grate, and I never saw it again. Days later, after Rob and I held Mike under a cold shower, after he sobered up and promised not to drink so much, I found a new cross on my pillow and Mike curled in a ball, drunk, on the floor. And that was Mike.

Sue I have already talked about.

Rob was a tall guy, measuring in at six feet five inches, which is seventy-seven inches, or one hundred ninety-five point fifty-eight centimeters, or one thousand nine hundred fifty-five point eight millimeters. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face and was really blind as a bat—he walked with a thin white cane, just like the blind men in films. I have one of those now.

Rob was incredibly intelligent. He mastered Braille before any of us, and he always seemed to know what he was talking about, even when he was actually dumber than a post about the topic. Sometimes he’d reach up and touch his nose with a crooked forefinger. When you asked him why he wanted to touch it so often, he’d say, Well, I can’t see it, and I gotta make sure it’s still there. And you had to laugh.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about the blindfolds. Blindfolds saved my life. They really did.

Blindfold is a compound word containing nine letters, made up of two smaller words, blind, which means sightless or unable to see and contains five letters, and fold, which means to yield or give in and contains four letters. All in all, blindfold means to yield the ability to see.

Before I got myself sent to Delcroix’s School for the Visually Impaired, I was pushed around a lot. I never seemed to meet anyone who wasn’t out to get something. Everyone’s out to get something, whether it’s money or fame or revenge or a box of double chocolate chunk cookies from the supermarket, and I met one hundred and forty-three point five people before college, and that’s one hundred and forty-three point five somethings, which is a lot of somethings. Babies count for half—that’s where the point five comes from.

These guys discovered pretty quick that I could win them bets, and I could make them rich, just because I counted so fast. You get faster at something when you practice it, you know.

We’d hunt down some suckers, or the guys would shake suckers from the woodwork one way or another, and it would go like this:

There’s no way he can count that, someone said. Always one of the suckers we were swindling, and always a smart aleck.

Yeah. That’s impossible. This being the aleck’s right-hand man.

You wanna bet on it?

A moment of consideration. We all studied the object in question. Usually it was a thing most people could never count, maybe blades of grass or the pebbles scattered on a certain patch of hillside. If you didn’t know me, the situation was completely outrageous. Sure money.

Okay. Yeah, I wanna bet on it. I’ll give you thirty bucks if he counts that.

Wait—how we gonna know he’s not lying to us? What if he just busts out with the wrong number? We ain’t gonna count it—

We swaggered a bit. Threw our shoulders back. One of us said mockingly, Hey, it’s your loss. We pretended we were going to walk away, like my counting pebbles was the next great wonder of the world and the chumps would miss out on it. Nobody could resist that.

Idiot. Lead guy elbowed right-hand aleck. Keep your trap shut. How’s that? We wanna bet. Make it forty bucks instead.

Hands were shaken.

Okay, Jonah, do your thing, man.

I turned and studied the rocks. There were tens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them. Tiny little things, scattered positively everywhere. My mind clicked and whirred and buzzed around in retracted circuits of agony. How many were there? I absolutely had to know. I crouched down and examined them closely. It took me about five minutes.

Three thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, I said, straightening up. No, wait. Seventy-five. There were three under a weed.

Money? we said smugly, palms extended. We smirked.

Take your fucking money. Four ten-dollar bills slapped regretfully into our hands.

We won’t be seeing them again.

Nope.

But we got the fucking cash, man.

Say, Jonah, how’d you count that so fast? Someone always had to ask this, even though he knew what the answer would be.

Practice.

3,545.

I hate numbers. Have I mentioned that? I do.

Numbers are annoying. A huge pain, really—there’re so many of them, and you can put them in infinite orders, making an infinite number of additional numbers, so things go around and around and you end up right where you started. Numbers are a lot like life. That’s why I hate them.

In case you’ve been wondering, I don’t count things for fun.

3,616.

You’ve been doing a great job with your diary, Jonah. I think you’re really making progress. Are you enjoying keeping track of your thoughts?

Jonah?

Yes. It’s fun. I enjoy it.

That’s excellent.

i can nearly hear the sound again. it’s like someone’s talking to me. a sort of quiet murmuring noise.

Let’s talk about your childhood for awhile, okay?

Okay.

Did you have any pets when you were younger, Jonah?

Yes.

i wish you’d go away.

What kind of pets did you have?

I had one pet. It was a cat.

her name was lulubelle. that was my mother’s idea.

where has the noise gone?

3,740.

Lulubelle was a stray. My brother Zach picked her up from the side of the road when he was four thousand, three hundred and eighty-three days old and I was only three thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven point twenty-five days old. She was balding in places, with four small, coin-shaped patches of gray skin on her head and by the base of her tail. Someone had torn her ear—it looked like a pizza with one piece missing.

Because of her ear, I wanted to name her Anchovy. Zach wanted to name her Leonardo, because he was currently obsessed with a cartoon called The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I don’t think either of us really picked up on the fact that he was a she until our mother came by and enlightened us:

The cat’s a girl, Zach.

Zach and I studied each other for awhile, mulling over the latest development. He hadn’t wanted a girl cat and, though I hadn’t given much thought to it myself, I would’ve preferred a boy. The object of our thoughts sat down and began swishing her tail: She lifted her front feet one at a time, licked them, and ran them meticulously over her face.

My mother was still standing behind us, looking over our shoulders. She looks like a Southern belle, she said.

What?

A belle, Zach—it means a beautiful girl.

It has five letters.

That’s right. Five letters.

We watched the cat for a little while longer, until our mother knelt down. I’m sure not getting any younger, she hissed, curling her fingers over my shoulder. She smelled like mint leaves and chamomile.

I reached out a hand and stroked the cat’s back—its fur was dusty. Small chimerical clouds evaporated at my touch.

Well, what should we name her?

Anchovy.

She’s a girl, Jonah.

It’s all right, Zach, said our mother. Anchovy works for a girl cat, too.

I don’t want to name her Anchovy. That’s a stupid name. And I found her, so she’s mine. She’s mine, right, Mom?

Wouldn’t you like to share her?

Well. Maybe. But I get to pick her name.

Zach worked on picking Lulubelle’s name for three hours the day he plucked her from the sidewalk and carried her inside. I sat on the floor playing with her, running my hands through her fur and teasing her bald spots with my fingertips, while he thought of sixty-five possibles. He tried each one aloud several times—he called, cajoled, hollered at, coaxed, and threatened Lulubelle to see how the names sounded, whether they rolled off the tongue or caught unpleasantly in the back of the throat. Here are ten of the names Zach considered:

Abbey Road (after The Beatles, a band he loved at the time)

Ace Baby Toadflakes

Anastasia

Gata (which is Spanish for female cat and contains four letters, five letters less than are in English for female cat)

Gemmie

Sage Felicity Bridgette Shit-Head

Shelley

Emily (after Emily Dickinson; this was a suggestion of my father’s)

Raelin

Veruca Salt (after the spoiled girl in Willy Wonka, who falls down the chute because she demands a special goose; this was my idea. I loved Willy Wonka as a kid.)

After three hours of that, Zach gave up. A friend of his, a boy named Steve, came to our house and rang the doorbell, leaning heavily on it until someone answered: my mother let him in, and he and Zach retreated to Zach’s bedroom to watch television. I perched on the couch, cat held in my lap, to think of names myself, but had no luck.

Lulubelle went nameless for two months and ten days, which is seventy-one days or one thousand, seven hundred and four hours. Mainly, when we needed to address her, we called her the first thing that popped into our heads. She got called by many different names, ranging from Get That Pain-in-the-Ass Cat Out Of There to Anchovy, which I called her every time I got the chance, taking pleasure in small victories.

On the seventy-second day, Lulubelle was sitting in our kitchen, dead-center, washing her face, and my mother came up with a name. The sink was full of soap and bubbles were rising over the sides—her hands were buried in the water. She paused in the middle of her work, brandished a mug, and declared:

Lulubelle.

What? I was sitting at the table, doing my homework. It was a worksheet of math problems. I’d almost finished.

Lulubelle, Jonah! That’s the perfect name for her!

You mean Anchovy?

Doesn’t she look like a Lulubelle?

I nodded. Suddenly it seemed that she did.

Lulubelle contains nine letters and is made up of the word lulu, which contains four letters and means a remarkable person, object, or idea, and the word belle, which contains five letters and means a beautiful woman. Essentially, Lulubelle means remarkable and beautiful. We got along great until the nasty little counting bug in my brain acted up. Then I decided I had to count her.

How do you count a cat? It’s real simple. You don’t.

4,633.

I have the solution, Rob said. I figured it out. He was practically dancing, the tip of his cane bouncing eagerly on the tile. It bounced seven times, ending on the upbeat.

I grinned. Figured what out, man?

Your counting problem—I solved it. It’s just like you said. The solution’s always waiting, you only gotta think of it.

I’ve been thinking for awhile and I haven’t come up with anything yet.

You can see. That’s the answer.

I know I can see, I said. You’re the one who can’t, remember?

Rob touched his nose. Course I remember. But if we make you blind, you won’t count.

How’s that work?

Easy. If you can’t see something, you can’t count it. You’ll feel a lot better. Nobody’ll push you around. No more betting for fucking Jonah. Blindfolds. Rob felt for his laundry hamper and reached inside. We were in his bedroom listening to the radio and eating potato chips.

The next thing I knew, there was nothing but darkness. Rob’s hand was warm behind my neck, pulling together the ends of a sock—a used sock, nonetheless. From the odor, he’d probably been wearing it for a week. He hated washing clothes.

Man, I can’t see!

That’s the point! How many fingers?

And I couldn’t count them.

4,840.

In counseling today, the therapist said that I should leave my room. Jonah, you’ve made a lot of progress in a very short time, which is remarkable, but you never mingle with the other guests. Are you afraid of them?

No.

Do you dislike them?

No.

I’ve had a great time talking with you, Jonah. This afternoon, I’d like you to consider going for a walk. I don’t see most of my patients in their rooms. I’m willing to make an exception for you, but I think social interaction would help you recover. Okay?

I kept silent and counted the seconds. It took thirty-nine.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonah. Take care. He walked out and made sure to shut my door behind him, making as little noise as possible. He shuts my door when I can’t see out—what’s the use? I don’t like him. He’s an idiot.

He thinks I can see.

4,997.

Mnemonic devices are the key to medical school. I know this because my older brother, Zach, went to medical school, and when we talked, though we never talked often, he’d sometimes talk about his education. He wanted to be a doctor—a neurologist. I’m not feeling well this afternoon. I kicked my therapist in the shin yesterday. Technically, he should be the one feeling bad.

Kicking him in the shin was an accident. I was aiming for his balls.

Not being able to see makes hitting what you’re aiming at harder than it used to be.

He’s always talking about my progress. My recovery. My will to keep on going, to do better. How proud he is of me for persisting in the face of such a seemingly hopeless situation. Damn it, what if I don’t want to get better? What if I want to count things again? What if that was the only thing that was ever halfway fucking special about me?

I don’t deserve to progress. I don’t want to improve. I think it would be pretty damn nice to die, in fact, because I am a fucking murderer.

I killed Susanna Rodriguez. Sure, it was mainly her fault, but I killed her.

There’s no buzzing noise any more.

Rodriguez contains nine letters and is a common Spanish surname which, loosely translated, means son of Rodrigo. Rodrigo contains seven letters and is the Spanish form of Roderick, which contains eight letters and means famous power. She’s not powerful now that she’s dead, though. She was so beautiful. Her name could’ve been Lulubelle and that would’ve been okay.

If I find a tumor on my body, I know how to determine whether that tumor is benign or malignant. I simply have to follow the checklist for skin cancer, like this:

Asymmetry

Border

Color

Diameter

Elevation

Benign tumours are symmetrical, while malignant tumours spread in all directions. Their borders are uneven and rough, as opposed to the smooth ones which mean safety. A benign tumour is a healthier shade of pink, as opposed to the dark, foreboding tones of malignant tumours, which range from red to black to purple—et cetera.

This is a mnemonic device. It works because it’s based on the first five letters of the English alphabet, which is the kind of thing pretty much everyone in medical school knows. On an exam, Zach wouldn’t have had to think of asymmetry and elevation—he would only have had to remember A-B-C-D-E, which is a lot easier. I’m still not feeling well. I can tell. My thoughts won’t stay where they should. I’m remembering numbers from years ago, and the digits are getting mixed up with Sue’s hands.

I never had to see them to know they were ugly.

5,448.

Do you remember kicking me yesterday, Jonah?

i really wish i’d aimed higher.

Yes.

I’m sorry for making you feel threatened. You must have felt threatened to act out physically. You understand that I’ll never do anything to hurt you—?

Yes.

Just a few days ago you were doing so well—improving so quickly. I thought you might almost be ready for visitors. What went wrong, Jonah?

I don’t know.

i want the noise back. that’s what’s wrong.

the noise is gone.

I think you don’t really understand that you don’t need this any more. I think you’re afraid. Am I right?

It’s okay to be afraid, Jonah. Did you know that?

It’s okay to be afraid.