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felt an overwhelming desire to scream, to punch, to hit, to attack. He slammed his fists against the steering wheel, once, twice, three times, until the pain became evident to his adrenalized system. Then, the anger segued into a loss-of-control feeling. Immediately he became overpowered by a premonition of free-falling, as though the road beneath the car had fallen away, leaving him to plunge infinitely into a bottomless pit. He pressed down on the gas. The car sped.
    Digging, digging, digging.
    Crumbling .
    An odd odor rose into his nostrils. Burning. Charcoal. In his sights he saw red embers glowing, flitting across his vision like flies on a television screen. His body began to tremble. He noticed his car closing in behind a black BMW. His mind told him to decelerate, but his body remained frozen in position, feet unable to shift from gas to brake. He could see the driver in the BMW glancing irritably in his rearview mirror, hands raised in inquisitive anger. Nausea twirled in his gut. His head spun. He spoke aloud, please don’t faint, don’t faint , his voice sounding distant, as if coming from the seat next to him.
    In the next moment, the mind-fingers stopped their scratching. Soon thereafter, the burning odor vanished. At once he regained control of his body and was able to slow the car, the speedometer’s needle diving from eighty to forty in ten seconds. Ahead, the BMW sped off in the distance.
    Now, of course, the drivers behind him grew pissed. Horns sounded and tires screeched as cars and SUVs sped by him. More hateful glances came his way. Carefully, he crossed the lanes and exited the freeway. He pulled into a gas station on the off ramp corner, one exit away from the restaurant; he could take Redondo Beach Boulevard from here, no problem.
    The car idled. He squeezed his fists. Sweat. Anxiety . “What the fuck is happening to me?” he said aloud, wiping his brow. A chill ran through his body. He wondered, Am I sick? Am I crazy? Jesus, am I having a heart attack? He picked up his cell phone, called information and got the number for his internist. Haven’t been to the doctor in a few years, anyway .
    “It’s a...a mild emergency,” he told the receptionist.
    She put him on hold. He listened to canned Neil Diamond. She came back on: “The doctor can see you tomorrow at noon.”
    “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
    “Yes, the doctor keeps Sunday hours, 12-5. He’s closed on Mondays.”
    Bev thanked her. Crazily, in this short time, he felt better. No more scratching; no anxiety; no anger; no voice. No other odd sensations. What was that crumbling? Felt like pieces of my brain were coming away.
    What the fuck is happening to me?
    The sweat on his face dried. He looked through the windshield. A station attendant eyed him curiously. Bev nodded, then put the car into drive and slowly made his way to meet Kristin, feeling as good as he did yesterday before all this insanity started.

SIX

    The drive off the San Diego Freeway took him along Redondo Beach Boulevard and Alondra Park. Intersecting Lawndale, Torrance, and Gardena, Alondra Park offered 315 acres of native plant gardens, landscaped forest glens, a fishing lake, and a massive sprawl of woodlands made up of trees and meadows. After Julianne died, when Kristin was just shy of her first birthday, Bev would come here to lament, wheeling his baby around and watching the more than 350 species of birds that made Alondra Park their home. At times he used to imagine that out there amongst the millions of birds flew a solitary envoy with a message from Julianne—one that would transcendentally guide his directionless life toward an acceptable level of happiness. He walked the park nearly every day for a year, soul-searching, hoping to find some kind of psychic connection with a winged spiritual shepherd.  
    At a time when he was willing to write off his prayers as frivolous and impossible—when he wondered how in God’s name he could’ve faithed such a