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chest pain, a wham, a crash—anything?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Not even a little snap, crackle, or pop?”
    “Not a snap, crackle, or pop.”
    “Had you ever had thoughts before that day about someday— any day ever in your life—buying some of the things you couldn’t have as a child?”
    “No.”
    “So it just happened?”
    “It just happened.”
    Otis was beginning to seriously wonder how this guy ever got to be a psychiatrist, much less known in the world for anything special or important. Talking to him was like talking to the guy in line at the 7-Eleven.
    That wasn’t quite right. There was a lilt and an authority in Tonganoxie’s voice that might have signaled some basic intelligence as well as a good sense of humor. But it was all very well disguised.
    “At least you’re not a Silver Star,” Tonganoxie said. “At least I assume you’re not. You haven’t made up a phony daring bio about being a war hero or a football star, anything like that, have you?”
    Otis shook his head. He had been tempted a time or two, particularly when having to explain to a room of men why a stupid injury in college had kept him out of the military.
    “Silver Star Syndrome, we call it. A psychiatrist who did some work with the military borrowed the term from them. Some guys, as they age, get carried away with wishing they had done more when they were young or been braver or faster or whatever. Before they know it, instead of telling people the truth about how they spent the entire Korean War in a reserve unit at home, say, they’re talking about how they won the Silver Star or some other kind of medal for taking out a Red Chinese machine-gun nest at the Chosin Reservoir. Politicians and other public figures get caught at it all the time. I’ve treated several Silver Stars. They’re everywhere.”
    Otis said that was not his problem, never had been his problem, and never would be his problem.
    “All right, then,” said Tonganoxie. “Another common cause of the so-called Second Childhood Syndrome—no offense—is baldness. You got a problem being bald?”
    Otis felt warmth in his face, which meant Tonganoxie was now seeing red in Otis’s face. “Not anymore,” Otis said.
    “You’re offended—and embarrassed—just by the question. So that tells me you’ve still got a problem with being bald. When did you go bald?”
    “It started in my twenties.”
    “When did it end?”
    “In my thirties.”
    “You’re really pissed about it, aren’t you?”
    Otis said nothing.
    “You wonder why you, huh? You see me with all of this hair, and you see other people all around you—men twice your age— with full heads of hair. Was your dad bald?”
    “No.”
    “Either one or both of your grandfathers?”
    “No.”
    “So, with no warning and no expectations, you were picked out at random to have no hair on your head. Makes you really want to tell the god of hair or whoever to go fuck him- or herself, doesn’t it?”
    Otis said, “I’m a bald-headed man. That’s what I am. Can we go on to something else?”
    “Sure. But you ought to know that there could be reason to believe it’s your baldness that caused you to do the helmet and fire engine and motorcycle—scooter, sorry—bit. All of that stuff takes you back to a time when you had hair. Maybe you’re trying to build yourself a little time capsule. If so, you’re not the first. It’s quite common, in fact, among bald-headed men, particularly those who hate their jobs.”
    Otis wanted out of here. Not in years had he wanted out of any place or situation as much as he wanted out of this one. He did not talk about being bald to anyone. It was something thathad happened to him, and that was that. It was like having a terrible accident that had left him terribly scarred or deformed.
    Tonganoxie said, “It’s understandable, because you were robbed of some of your younger years. Being bald made you look older than your actual age. I’ll bet you looked sixty when