It's a bit later than usual when Wilson arrives home. He is laden with bags and a pizza box besides his briefcase; Greg gives him a sidelong look while perusing the early evening offerings on tv. Without a word Wilson makes his way to the kitchen, and pauses only to drop off the mail. It is a silent rebuke, one Greg chooses to ignore. Why should he go to the bother of getting dressed just to cruise a few feet to the mailbox? He sets down the remote and picks up the stack of letters. Most are requests for consults; he puts those aside and looks through the rest, but there's nothing but circulars and flyers, a reminder to get maintenance done on the Chrysler, the electric bill . . . until he gets to the last item. It's a letter from Gardener's practice. The shock of it grips him hard for a moment. He resists the urge to rip it open and read the contents. Instead he tosses the electric bill on the coffee table and tucks the letter in his bathrobe pocket just as Wilson enters the living room with two plates in hand, loaded with pizza and fries.

"Pizza on a weeknight." Greg accepts his plate. For once the fragrance of pepperoni and hot fries smells almost tempting. "Feeling guilty, are we?"

Wilson sets his plate on the coffee table, picks up the bill and goes back to the kitchen. "Not particularly." The fridge door opens, followed by the clink of beer bottles. "Just though it would make a nice change from chicken and salad."

"Uh huh. Couldn't have anything to do with Stacy coming over this morning."

"Oh, did she stop by?" Wilson returns with bottles in hand. He puts one down close to Greg and takes a seat on the couch with a muffled groan. "Damn, that treadmill at the gym is trying to kill me."

"No humble brags. Stick to the subject." Greg takes a bite of pizza. It's good, just the right ratio of cheese and sauce to meat. He chews and tries to feel something more than nothing at all, aware of the slight weight of the letter in his pocket.

"It was nice of her to see you." Wilson picks up his slice. "How's she doing?"

"You told her to come over."

Wilson gives him an innocent look. "No, actually I didn't. I . . . suggested it."

"Meaning you twisted her arm."

"Come on, you know Stacy. I couldn't have forced her to do anything. She's as stubborn as you are in that respect." Wilson chews and closes his eyes for a moment. "Damn, this is good. Especially since someone else made it."

Greg is about to hurl back a reply when it strikes him that Wilson has prepared dinner almost every night for the last five months, without complaint—not so much as a hint of reproach, even when his cooking is refused or picked at. So he says nothing, just takes a large swallow of beer.

"Thought that might shut you up." Wilson puts his stocking feet on the coffee table. "Where's the remote? I'd like to watch the news."

Greg tosses him the item in question. "Game's on later."

"Okay."

They settle into their usual routine—dinner and desultory commentary on the day's events—but Greg can't settle into it. Of course the weather doesn't help; rain and blustery winds aren't unusual for late October, and he's happy to be indoors most of the time. Even the minor change from the weekday routine presented by tonight's meal isn't enough to cause this. He doesn't want to think about Stacy's visit being a partial source for his restlessness, but he has no choice.

"You're pretty quiet tonight." Wilson sits up a bit and stretches. "Want more pizza?"

Greg looks at the crust left on his plate. He's not really hungry, but for lack of anything better to do he nods. Wilson heaves himself up off the couch and pads into the kitchen. Greg calls after him.

"I can get it myself."

After a moment Wilson pokes his head around the doorframe. "Okay." His tone is mild, neutral.

It takes several minutes to transfer from the couch to the chair, and then move around furniture to the kitchen. Wilson's at the sink. He doesn't turn around when Greg enters. The pizza and fries are on the island. Greg dumps the crust in the box, grabs two more slices and a pile of fries, and heads over to the microwave. He can just about reach it. It would be easier if you were standing, that little voice in his head whispers. He ignores it and heats up the food, takes it back to the living room.

By the time he's back on the couch everything is tepid. He picks off the pepperoni and eats a few fries, but he isn't interested in the food. With an impatient sigh he slaps the plate on the coffee table and picks up his laptop.

When Wilson returns, Greg is deep in an article about the latest prosthetics on offer. Part of him knows this is overt, crude manipulation, an attempt to move him out of the safe cave he's made for himself. But another part is eager now to step out, in every sense of the phrase. If he has to live with a fake leg, so be it. You'll need all the support you can get after you read that letter, a little voice whispers.

Wilson says nothing, even though Greg knows he's seen the laptop screen. He just takes his place at the other end of the couch and picks up the remote. But when he says "Let's move on from the news," his voice is quiet, and his glance holds understanding. Nothing more is said.

Later on, when he's in his bedroom and Wilson's gone for the night, Greg takes the letter out of his bathrobe pocket, rips it open, removes the single sheet. It's a notice from her assistant informing him Doctor Gardener will likely close up shop and move out of state in six months, if so her office will farm out patients to other therapists, any questions call or email, blah blah. There is no acknowledgment of him in any way, no personal note, nothing.

He stares at the words as shock grips his heart, followed closely by fear. So she's decided to leave—leave everything, her home, the cottage, her career—him. He's driven her to this; while he'd like to think this is some kind of gauntlet she's thrown down, he knows her well enough to understand that's not what's happened. She is about to go out of his life for good because he's been silent for months—he's allowed her to believe he doesn't trust her. It's not true, but the damage is done; the depth of the wound he caused is visible in her choice to leave. Still . . . if he acts now, it might not be too late.

After a time he makes a call, but not the one Wilson presumes is first on the list. As he expects, it goes to voicemail.

"You've got my number. I have a proposal. It'll be worth your consideration."

He lies in the soft darkness for a long time, not sure if he's done the right thing by setting this chain of events into motion. But he has to try.