Someone is talking.
None of the words make sense over the fog in his head.
The voice is scared.
Then there's another voice…firm, yet compassionate.
These words finally penetrate the fog.
"Danny, I need you to look at me."
He looks up. "Doc? What…what are you doing…"—he looks around—"what are you doing in my laundry room?"
"Sean called me. He came home to get his phone charger, got worried when he couldn't find you anywhere in the house, then he found you in here. He said he couldn't get you to talk to him, so he called me."
"You didn't need to come. I'm fine."
"Really? There's paperwork on your dining room table about unemployment claims for Linda, you've been sitting here, trapped in your head, for over an hour—and you're fine? Try again, Danny."
He looks at Doc. The words…he'd had to tell the boys, of course, and that had been hard; they'd asked him a few questions, but mostly shut down…and he had done what he always did: shoved everything down and tried to move on.
"Where's Sean?"
Doc looks at him…that look that says Stop stalling. "He's at his friend's studying for finals. Tell me what's going on."
"Someone…tried to steal Linda's identity, and now I have to call all these f-g strangers and…tell them she's dead, but she…she was murdered, Doc, and I…I…I don't know how…I can't…"
He closes his eyes.
How is he supposed to process the fact that beautiful, smart, funny, charming, sexy Linda—who's been dead four years now—was murdered?
The amount of paperwork and phone calls and sheer bureaucratic $#!+ that he is going to have to do…that it nearly killed him to do four years ago…the number of times he is going to say "My wife died May 28, 2017)…no, scratch that, "My wife was murdered May 28, 2017"…
Murdered.
Is it even politically correct to say that to collection agencies and unemployment commissions?
Doc had tried to get him to talk about that, but he had stonewalled the younger man…changed the subject, made excuses to leave early, stormed out of therapy sessions…
Apart from chasing Delgado, then Rojas, he hasn't processed it.
He needs to—he knows he needs to…
I can't, I can't, I can't.
The hand on his arm has him lashing out, and he makes contact with something firm.
He opens his eyes to see that he has just punched Doc in the eye. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and tries to stand, to flee. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…"
"Stop. It's okay, Danny. I should have warned you before I touched you; that was my fault. I'm sorry. Do you have any peas in the freezer?"
He nods.
Doc stands up. "I'm going to go get a bag of peas; you can take it off what you owe me for the next session. I'll meet you in the living room."
Doc is trying to give him some space, but all he can think is I have to tell all the credit agencies and the stupid f-g employment commission, and every f-g bureaucratic bureaucracy, that Linda was murdered, and I hit Doc and now for sure he's going to leave.
It takes him ten minutes to talk himself into walking into his own living room.