My finger hovers, poised above the lamp's switch, ready to cut off its jaundiced circle of light. It traces the etched line of my cuticle, clean but for one frayed edge that catches my nail, the barely noticeable mar of a perfect day, a perfect life. I let my hand drop, retreat from that weakness. There's too much to do. Too much that cannot wait. I gather my resolve and another stack of files, turning to the thin, sanitized papers with their bold-lettered titles and inexact definitions. A murder of the senses. A cleansing of the soul. This is how I've built it. This is how I'll keep it. I run my finger down a printed page. I'm two words into a three-word name when the sound hits me, a low hum in the hallway. He's still here.
Derek's voice, too quiet, almost a suggestion rather than a sou
