of twin beds. A physical chasm between them might do more for his peace of mind than the gopher mound she erected with that silly rolled blanket each night.
Trissa was too close and the woolen wall was too flimsy. Nicholas would get more restful sleep on the lumpy, sagging sofa. It was not that she violated his territory in any way. On the contrary, she seemed able to crunch herself into a ball as tiny as a hedgehog to sleep. She didn't snore, or toss and turn and jiggle the bed, or steal away all the blankets. She didn't eat crackers in bed, or talk in her sleep, or get up several times in the night to go to the bathroom. In short, Trissa had the most courteous habits a bed partner could have.
Except that she was too damn close.
Long after she was asleep, Nicholas would lay awake thinking about her. He listened to her soft, wispy breathing. He could smell her toothpaste and the Ivory soap she used to scrub her face pink. He tried to focus his thoughts on her ugly, flannel pajamas and the ratty terry cloth scuffs she wore around the room at night, but that did nothing to blunt his desire for her. She had marked her blanket boundary, spoke of honor, and then tortured him by asking for a kiss.
She had gotten her kiss the second night, but he insisted that it take place while they stood on two feet, well away from the bed. It hadn't helped. Afterwards, Trissa had been able to hop under the covers and fall rapidly and soundly to sleep. Nicholas had been left to stare at the wall and curse honor and kisses and self-made promises to take things slowly.
Surrounded by all her proxy parents, Trissa seemed more the child than ever to him, and he was determined to give her time to be one. He guessed that she had had little of that while she was growing up. She needed time to forget a father whose perverted attention had driven her to desperation. Such trauma could have made her dread any man's touch. That it had not, that she seemed to relish his kiss, that each seemed to hold more promise than the one before gave him reason to hope. He could be patient. Something so magical always takes time.
*****
Dr. Lorenzo Fitapaldi received the letter in his afternoon mail. As she did with all his correspondence, Phyllis, his secretary, slit open the envelope and placed it face down on his desk. He did not like to form opinions about the contents by glancing at the return addresses or the handwriting beforehand. He was not a man to make snap judgments. The letter was scratched on a bedraggled piece of loose leaf paper that looked as if it had been crumpled then smoothed flat so it could be written on with a blunt, soft pencil.
Dr. Fitapaldi:
I am writing to inform you of my new address should you need to get in touch with me about my father. Though I realize he is no longer in your care, I seem to have forgotten the name and location of the hospital where he resides. I hope you will not mind forwarding this information to the proper place. I am not certain how long it has been since I have seen him. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps I am. The day has grown so dark that I can barely see.
Cole Baker
The words marched with rigid precision across the page, each block letter printed heavily, but they ended without completing Cole's stated purpose. He had not included his address.
Fitapaldi turned the paper over. The backside was filled with math problems, the numbers scribbled at all angles, somebody's scratch paper. The handwriting did not match the front. He lay the letter aside and took up the envelope. The printed return address had been blacked out with heavy strokes from the same pencil that had been used to write the note. Only Fitapaldi's address, hand printed by Cole, was legible.
Holding it under the strong bulb of his desk lamp, Fitapaldi inspected the return address. He could make out a few letters. Carefully, he rubbed over the pencil marks with an eraser, lightly so as not want to wear away the printing underneath. Squinting at it again, he was able to read "St. Andrew's Hos--" then something, something, " -- ghway Blvd." and on the next line, "St. Lou--" The rest was obliterated but it