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forgot who he was. What he was.
    Until something happened to remind you.
    Once, a new staffer screwed up his meds and Noah just…slipped his knots. He disappeared, causing a mild panic as therapists and patients alike scoured the building and grounds for him.
    He turned up later that day in a diner on Grant Street. He’d found a hammer and some old nails at a nearby construction site, and was going from table to table, asking if someone would please crucify him.
    Not long after that, Noah’s insurance ran out and he was cut loose from the clinic.
    I was the one who found him, purely by chance, a few years later. Driving to work one morning, I caught sight of a homeless guy digging in a trash dumpster. His eyes were glazed, hair dirty and unkempt. Then he grinned, and I knew who it was. Whether he knew me, I couldn’t be sure.
    I contacted Nancy and a couple other colleagues who knew Noah, and we helped find him a job at this run-down coal barge that had just been refitted as a riverfront bar. Ironically the owner, some retired mining executive, took such a liking to Noah that he named the bar after him. While Nancy, still feeling indebted, continued to prescribe and monitor his meds.
    Therapeutically, what we did was outrageous. Maybe even illegal. But it was tangible, pragmatic. A nice change for a therapist. And it worked.
    Noah stayed Noah, of course. There are no miracles. Just the hope, in the end, of more good days than bad.
    Sometimes, that has be to enough.
    ***
     
    When the wind turned icy, I helped Noah pull the waterproof tarp over his piano and we went inside.
    Despite the polished bar stools and hanging racks of glasses over the long, beveled counter, you never forgot you’d stepped into the interior of a former coal barge. Port-holes opened to the river, black tar paper hung from the ceiling. The faint scent of oil-soaked water. What Noah blithely called its “nautical motif.”
    Charlene, the bar’s only waitress (and Noah’s main squeeze), was already lighting the shaded candles at the corner booths. I took a seat at the bar while Noah went behind and started setting things up.
    At the other end of the bar, a TV was showing the evening news. Over the anchorman’s shoulder was the by-now infamous video of the Handyman’s arrest. This was followed by a shot of Dowd’s lawyer talking to reporters.
    “Wonder how the appeal’s going?” I said absently.
    “Who gives a shit?” Noah said, stepping over to shut off the TV. His face grew dark.
    “I don’t mind the crazies,” he said quietly. “It’s the evil fucks I hate.”
    A silence fell between us.
    A few early patrons walked in then, finding a table. Charlene went over, pad in hand, to take their order. She was from out west somewhere. Big, funny, sexy as hell. She helped run the bar and handle the books. Plus she loved Noah, which could be a full-time job in itself.
    I turned back to find Noah staring at me. “Look, this Kevin kid gettin’ whacked…I mean, I’m sorry and all, but this ain’t nothin’ like what happened to Barbara. Fuck it, you weren’t responsible then, you ain’t responsible now.”
    “I know that, all right?” I kept my voice calm. “Believe me, the last thing I’d do is put myself through that hell again.”
    “Glad to hear it. ’Cause nothin’ you can do will bring that kid back.”
    “I know that, too.”
    Another long silence. Finally, I stood up, pushing off from the stool. I was vaguely conscious of other customers wandering in, their voices wafting like smoke.
    I felt light-headed. I realized I hadn’t eaten a thing in over twenty-four hours. Naturally, as soon as I had that thought, my stomach started gnawing.
    “You want my advice,” Noah was saying, “fly your sorry ass to Barbadoes and hook up with a couple horny divorcees. Think about it, man. I’m talkin’ tag-team blow-jobs.”
    “Jesus, I wish.” I glanced at my wrist; forgot my watch. “What time is it, anyway?”
    “Why? Are my