He drops his cigarette and grinds it under his sneaker. I ask if there’s anything else. He shakes his head once, shoves his hands in his jacket, and walks quickly toward the elevator.
I retreat to the car, then sit in the driver’s seat with the dome light on and the envelope in my lap for a full minute before I open it.
Eventually, I work up the nerve. Then I dive in.
The handwriting starts neat and elegant. Blue ink on what looks like unlined cream paper, photocopied in grayscale.
He keeps begging me to try another round of treatment. He doesn’t understand: I’ve already decided. I just need to make him strong enough to do what I’m asking.
March 9. Elena writes about the Swiss specialist Lukas flew in, and the argument afterward. She describes listening to her husband break down in th
