He said I was not sleeping and not eating and that I had been strange since my father’s anniversary, and that he wondered whether it was time to talk to somebody.

He had a name.

He had a name ready, a psychiatrist in Beachwood, and he had already — he told me this in a warm voice, as a kindness — called to ask about availability.

I said I would think about it.

I told Ruiz the next morning and he wrote down the psychiatrist’s name and said, “Good.

That’s very good,” and I said, “It doesn’t feel good,” and he said, “No.

It’s still very good.”