I took a deep breath. Then another.“Yes. Sorry. That’s pretty much what Doctor Mercer did with me. And encouraged me to write in my journal.”“...hy?”“Because only I can answer the ultimate question of my own mortality and what Birgit’s death meant to me. Or Stephie’s. Or Nick’s. Or Don Joseph’s, for that matter.”“Yes. And what was all the training?”“On how to get someone to talk about something so painful that they don’t want to talk about. Or so embarrassing. Or so personal.”“Yes. There’s more,. The first few days passed uneventfully - to be honest, it was pretty boring, with not a lot for a single older guy to do in a mostly-empty small college town during summer, so I filled my evenings with taking walks, browsing the farmer's markets to get things to make for my solitary meal, chat with the vendors, then return to eat alone, (well, with the cats), read, and watch tv.That changed on Wednesday afternoon, when I was sitting on the living room couch, working, and heard a key in the. More

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