He had said something dismissive and gone to bed, and at two in the morning he had lain awake in the dark thinking about his six-year-old calling a name that was not his.

That was the first dose.

It was administered in a compliment, and it took, and Sabina never had to mention it again.

They came steadily after that, spaced out, never twice in one week, never urgent.

In December, over coffee: “One of my earrings has walked off.

The little pavé ones.

It’s my own fault, I leave things everywhere.” And then, four days later, in front of him, to no one in particular: “I found the earring.

It was in the tray in the blue guest room, which is odd, because I’ve never once set foot in the blue guest room.” And she had laughed and moved on and let it sit there for the rest of his life.