“To be downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“That we may be able to arrange.”
He gave me a skeptical look.
“Sit in the corner while everyone pretends I’m helping?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He looked away.
The despair in his face was worse than anger.
Maeve arrived at nine.
I met her near the bottom of the stairs.
“You have grease on your forehead,” she said.
I wiped at it.
“Other side.”
I tried again.
“Better?”
“No, but less.”
She looked toward the apartment.
“How is he?”
“Physically, improving.”
“And otherwise?”
“Low.”
“What does low mean today?”
“He doesn’t want another day on the couch. Says he wants to work.”
“Has he said anything about hopelessness? Not wanting to be alive?”
“No.”
“Worthlessness?”
“He said he doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t useful.”
Maeve’s expression became serious without turning alarmed.
