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Edward?”
    This is something I do not like about Dr. Bryan Thomsen. What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sure. That’s why I called him and told him he wouldn’t be seeing me Tuesday.
    It’s not like Dr. Buckley never questioned me about my choices. Believe me, she did. But her questions would alwayshave a degree of specificity (I love the word “specificity”) that Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s lack. She would say something like, “Have you thought about ‘blank,’” with the blank being some consequence of my decision that I would have to account for before committing myself to a course of action. But Dr. Bryan Thomsen just asks me a lame question with no specificity whatsoever.
    “I’m sure. I’m driving to Boise, Idaho.”
    “When will you be back?”
    “Before December twentieth, because I have to go Texas.”
    “Will you promise to schedule an appointment as soon as you can after you get back? I don’t want to lose momentum on the good work we’ve been doing.”
    “I promise.”
    “Do you have my numbers? If you need to call me from the road, you can.”
    “I have your numbers.”
    “OK, Edward. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
    “OK.”
    I hang up, and as I do, I realize something: December 20 is a Tuesday. Even if I weren’t going to Boise, my streak of every-Tuesday counseling sessions would have ended this month. How did I not notice that before?
    It seems like everything I can rely on is slipping away from me.

    If not for the fact that I have to do it, I would not choose to be at Rimrock Mall today.
    First, the parking lot is so full that I have to park way in the back, almost to Twenty-Fourth Street West, the busiest street onthe west end of town. Here’s how bad it was: I had to make six left turns in the parking lot as I drove up and down the lanes before I finally found a spot for my Cadillac DTS. Those were six highly dangerous traffic maneuvers. I should feel fortunate that I emerged from them without crashing, but it’s hard to feel fortunate when my heart is pounding.
    It’s also hard to feel fortunate when I have to pee and the entrance to the store is so far away.
    I make my way through the parking lot at a light jog—fast enough to get me into the mall before I wet my pants, but slow enough that the agitation does not aggravate my impulse to pee. This is a difficult balance to strike.

    When I emerge from the men’s room—stopping in the food court to pull up my zipper—I see what I am up against. This mall is teeming (I love the word “teeming”) with people, and though looks can be deceiving, I must say that not many of them look merry and bright. I’m intimidated.
    I stick close to the wall as I walk toward the center of the mall to ensure that I touch as few people as possible. When I was here a few years ago, some woman plowed directly into me with her giant Orange Julius, and that is a scene I wish to avoid today. When I reach the intersection of all the mall paths, I stop and jam my back against the wall as I look for the cell phone kiosk. At last I see it. It’s manned by a pretty young woman wearing a Santa hat. She looks friendly. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Both of those things—the woman’s apparent friendliness, the notion that this won’t be bad—are conjecture, and conjecture is not good enough. I need facts, and there is only one way to get them.
    The woman in the Santa hat sees me coming.
    “Happy holidays, sir,” she says. “How can I help you?”
    “I need a cellular telephone for my trip to Idaho.”
    She gestures at the array of phones adorning the kiosk.
    “Well, we can certainly help with that. Did you have a particular model in mind? We have Blackberries, iPhones, Androids…”
    “Just a phone that calls other phones.”
    She smiles.
    “You’re funny, sir. Let’s look at this Droid Razr. It’s has one gig of LP DDR2 RAM, a four-point-three-inch display, it runs on the 4G LTE network—”
    “Does it call