“Thanks.” He thought: I’d rather starve than have your boyfriend visit me again. He walked to the front door, careful not to rush.
“See you soon,” she called from the kitchen.
He could not bear to turn back around and see her radiant face. But he did it anyway, smiling. And then he was out the door, alone in the quiet sanctuary of the hall. His face began to burn, as repressed shame flowed upward. All he wanted was to escape this building that housed the truth—now so painfully obvious, like a hidden blister exploded upon chafing.
He hurried out of the building. The folded paper crinkled against his right thigh, but he ignored it, refusing to acknowledge any reminder of his folly. Outside, the cool air felt moist, as if the gray sky was preparing to shed its clouds. He stood on the corner, with one limp arm raised, until a cab pulled up. Once he settled into it, he craved something to dull his mind: the sting of vodka or the warmth of whiskey or even just the relief of a cigarette.
By the time the cab dropped him at Avenue C and Tenth Street, it had begun to rain, and he sprinted, groaning, to the alley. Bolts of pain shot through his lower back. He reached the threshold, looked all around the desolate street, and then headed into the alley. Puddles of muck were lapping up raindrops and oozing outward in all directions. He could hardly avoid them as he rushed to the concrete stairs, then down the short flight and to the steel door. He fumbled with his keys before unlocking all three bolts and then bursting inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
Cool droplets slid down his forehead as he caught his breath. He looked down; the cuffs of his jeans were soaked. He had no choice but to take them off. After tossing his keys onto the cot, he removed his cell phone from his left pocket and his wallet from his back one, and threw those onto the cot as well. When he crouched down to untie his sneakers, he felt the folded paper stiffen against his thigh. Exhaling, he stood back up and looked around the familiar room that had become his home. The microscopes waited loyally on the counter; the incubator and freezer hummed; the cot and flannel blanket promised warmth, if not comfort. Here, at least, he was guaranteed total privacy, however poor a consolation.
He hesitated. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the rectangle of paper. He knew he could simply toss it into the wastebasket under the counter and never look at it again. But some masochistic force drove him to unfold the page, to read the words he had written, if only for the sick pleasure of seeing exactly what humiliation he had avoided:
January 21, 2028
Dear Arianna,
I hope this is the last weekend of your life that you have to suffer. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to watch you get sicker these past few months. But what happened today will change everything—of course it’s unknown, but I have every reason to believe that it will work. Theoretically, it’s perfect. I can’t wait for this week to pass. And when it does, you’ll be the bravest patient your clinic has ever seen. All I want is for you to live, Arianna. The world can’t afford to lose you.
You have no idea what you saved me from when you showed up at my apartment all those months ago. I hate to think what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come. That day, I think we made each other’s wildest hopes come true. And then I started to see you as the woman you are, and not just as a former student who needed my help. Why do you think I could never imagine quitting like the others? I know you’ve never seen this side of me. I bet you’re surprised. Well, so am I.
It’s funny sometimes how life works. When I thought everything was over for me, you found me, you breathed life back into me, and now I will do the same to you. Maybe one day we’ll walk in the park together, hand in hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Forgive me for this fantasy, if that’s all it is, but I’ve had stranger dreams come true. You might agree that it is audacious to fantasize about something against all odds, but I know you of all people can sympathize with the joy—and the horror—of our kind of hope. The kind that drives you mad and keeps you up and keeps you going.
Together, Arianna, we are pioneers. Eventually, I think we’ll be united in history’s eyes, like Lewis and Clark, or Watson and Crick. And none will know the truth between our names except for you and me; the truth I would take to my grave, were it not for the tiniest chance that you might feel the same. For the truth is this: I love you.
Yours, always,
Sam
Sam stared, unblinking, at the scribbled piece of paper in his hand. The words were as embarrassingly honest as he had ever been with himself, let alone with her. He cringed, feeling his soul curl up on itself.
In one swift movement, he crumpled the page into a ball and hurled it into the wastebasket.
EIGHTEEN
On Saturday morning, Dopp rushed down the sidewalk to the office. The streets in Midtown were much less crowded than he had ever seen, and for once, he was able to keep up his natural pace. He wore a beige trench coat and boots, and kept one hand ready on the handle of his umbrella. Dark clouds portended a storm at any moment. There was a certain piece of paper in his briefcase that he had worked hard to obtain, but his briefcase would protect it from rain.
All his trouble was going to be
