Sometimes—like this afternoon—when Vicki and I sit here in her apartment, I can feel her studying me and wondering how it could happen. She wants to ask, what was he like? Even if I wanted, I could never explain—how it happened, what he was like. Not for the shrink’s reasons—traumatic amnesia. I don’t really believe in shrinks anyway—besides the fact that people like us don’t go to shrinks. But not for the shrink’s reason. No. It’s that I never found out myself. Simple enough.