My therapist stops writing. Takes his glasses off. He’s got these big bags under his eyes. Looks like he gets less sleep than me.
The only rule, I say, is that you can’t kill them. But there’s a few cases where I think that’s happened. There’d be no way of knowing who did it, though. It’s untraceable. We have names like Cookie Monster, Cousin Greg, Walter White.
He glances at the clock behind me. Back at me.
