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"She tried to eat a fake spider. The big rubbery kind with the fuzzy legs. Had it halfway in her mouth before I got to her."

His breath shifts, but he doesn’t laugh. A half-beat alteration in his breathing. The fact that I can tell the difference after three calls should concern me.

It doesn't.

"She's fearless, your dog."

"She's twelve pounds. She doesn't know what fear is."

"Maybe that's what fearless means."

The line goes quiet for a beat. Bean pulling toward the foam gravestones. Sniffing the skeleton's base. Trying to eat a rubber spider. Her body moving through October like it's any other month. She sees a spider and it's a toy. She sees a gravestone and it's a thing to pee on. She sees the skeleton and it's furniture.

I envy her, for a moment.

Then the moment passes and we talk for another hour before I fall asleep with the phone to my ear.

I could have sworn he said goodnight, Milo, but by then, I was already dreaming of tomorrow's greeting.

***

October 20th comes and we fall into our rhythm.

"Who do you talk to? Besides me."

"Noor. She’s a friend from college. I mentioned her before."

"Does she know about the October thing?"

"Knows I don't love Halloween. Doesn't know why."

"Why not?"

"Because telling Noor means telling Noor. The whole thing. And the whole thing means watching her face do the sympathy expression, the one I've seen on enough therapists that I know what it feels like from the receiving end. It feels like being turned into the worst thing that ever happened to you."

"You protect her from it, or you protect yourself from her reaction?"

"Both."

"That's honest."

"It's exhausting is what it is."

"What about Dr. Maren? Someone else who does what she did. You’ve told me about Kaplan, how’s that going?"

"Kaplan has a three-month waitlist. And I don't know if I can start over. Explaining from scratch. Watching a new person build the whole sordid picture while I sit there being the bug under the microscope. Took a year with Maren before I could talk about the actual event."

"Starting over is hard when you've already done the work."

"Feels like the work didn't count." I sigh. "Four years with Maren. Four years of sitting in a chair every Thursday at 3 p.m. and opening the thing I don't open for anyone else. And she left. She got a job offer and she left. I know that's how it works. I know therapists aren't permanent. But she knew about the basement. She was the only person who knew the whole thing. And now she's in Portland and the whole thing is just... back inside me. Sealed up. Waiting for someone else to be trusted enough to hear it."

He falls silent for a beat.

"The point is that you try. I'm serious. Eleven years. Exposure therapy. EMDR. Coping strategies. When those weren't enough, you picked up the phone. That's not failure."

I don't reply because I don't know what to say.

"At the very least, you have me."