I open the door, step out, and Betsie follows behind. When we are situated and I have a firm hold of the harness, I feel a small hand reach inside my arm and lead me forward. I go without hesitation, and so does Betsie. As I pass the detective, who is holding the door to the donut shop open, I catch a faint hint of aftershave. Long ago, doctors told me my olfactory system had been mostly destroyed. I shouldn’t be able to smell. But I do sometimes. Each smell is a miracle. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Once we are seated in the warm shop, I can’t help but smile at the assorted smells that come next. Yes, eighty percent, maybe even ninety percent. A hint of chocolate and cinnamon and cake. The smell of old grease. Something that could have been marijuana, too. Hard to say. I also smell dirt and grime and sweat, and suspect there’s a homeless man seated nearby. Also, Betsie’s attention is elsewhere. On the homeless man, probably. She doesn’t like homeless men or women. They, more than any others, are most likely to confront me, and Betsie somehow knows this. Motionless, she watches whoever is sitting next to us…the entire time we sit there. Never taking her eyes off him or her, even to scrounge for donut crumbs that are undoubtedly falling around her.

  Rachel takes my wrists carefully and her touch is even sweeter than I remember. She places the back of my hand on top of the table, and then slips her own small hand into my own. Goosebumps ripple through me. No, tear through me. Rage through me.

  “Hi, Lee,” she signs, one letter after another. “Remember me?”

  “How could I forget?” I sign back, using both hands. I return my hand to the table, palm up, ready for her answer. I know I am grinning like a schoolboy.

  “Detective Hammer wants to know if you want anything to eat or drink?”

  I sign back that I will take a donut and a milk. I tell him to choose the donut, since he is the expert.

  “He says comments like that are what get people plain donuts,” responded Rachel, her fingers gentle but firm in my palm.

  “Tell him to bite me,” I sign back.

  “He says it’s good to have you back, Lee.”

  I grin. For some reason, I sense Rachel grinning, too, although that had to be my imagination. Then again, isn’t almost everything these days in my imagination?

  While we wait, presumably as the good detective stands in line for our donuts, Rachel has the good decency to release my hand.

  I hate good decency.

  My thoughts wander. I’d realized long ago that seeing actually helped focus my thoughts—and also helped distract my thoughts. Now, I had little distraction from the world inside my head. And, boy, oh boy, did my mind wander. Sometimes, too far and wide and for far too long. Sometimes, it is all I can do to rein in my imagination, to wrestle them down, so to speak. Especially when I am alone, when my thoughts are scattered and chaotic, I think I am losing my mind. In the past, all I had to do was open my eyes, blink and rub my eyeballs and focus on something else. Now, well, now I had nothing to distract my inner world. I live, I’ve come to accept, in one long, rotten dream.

  I feel something thud on the plastic table, followed by the greasy aroma of donuts. A soft hand slides between my forefinger and thumb and guides me to a carton of milk, already opened for me. Who had opened it, I don’t know, but I have my suspicions. The donut is next to it. A long john, with frosting. My guess: chocolate. I will know soon enough.

  Now, as I drink in silence, I feel all eyes on me. The esophagus is functional for me, and so is the masticating process. Yay.

  The donut tastes heavenly. It has been a while since I treated myself to something like a donut. For me, sweets have always been a reward. I guess I haven’t had much of a reason to reward myself these days. But I know that’s not true. Hell, just making my way safely down to the coffee shop each morning is something to celebrate. Or keeping my sanity. Hell, I should be having donuts each and every morning. Maybe I will.

  Shortly, when all of us have had our sugar fixes, Rachel takes my hand again. I hope mine is grease free. She begins spelling the words out quickly. My injuries have forced me to develop new neural pathways in my mind that allow me to see the letters as they appear in my hand. As if I were watching words appear on a computer monitor. “Another missing person report came in last night.”

  “Who’s working the case?” I ask, using both of my free hands.

  “Detective Hammer.”

  I nod, sign: “Where did the victim live?”

  “Beverly Hills.”

  “How old?”

  “Fifty-eight, married.”

  “Let me guess,” I sign, “he told his wife he was going for a walk.”

  “I see the captain caught you up to speed.”

  “Any witnesses?” I ask.

  “Only the wife. No one’s seen him since.”

  “Any video feeds of him?”

  “We’re checking on it now, but he lived in an old house. No home surveillance.”

  “Was he wearing a backpack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wife know which direction he took?”

  “She does not.”

  I think about this, and ask: “Anything turn up on his cell phone or email or web browser?”

  “We’re checking that now, but so far, nothing.”

  “Same M.O.,” I sign.

  “Yes,” comes Hammer’s response, as relayed through Rachel’s fingers pressed into my palm.

  I sign: “Someone’s helping the vics disappear.”

  “That’s the way we see it.”

  “But why?”

  “For money, be my guess.”

  There is silence and I feel myself buzzing. I love this feeling. The buzzing crackles between my shoulders and down both arms and seems to settle somewhere in my solar plexus.

  “We’ve gone through emails and texts—sometimes many months back—but always a lot of nothing. So, what do you think is going on, Lee?”

  I think about this, about it long and hard. But before I can answer or think about an answer, another message gets pressed into my hand. It’s from Rachel: “He’s telling me he trusts your opinion. That you were one of the best. That you are greatly missed.”

  I smile, and sign back to her, “Detective Hammer must be drunk again.”

  Rachel: “On donuts. He just ate four of them. Gross.”

  I smile again, and address Hammer’s question: “For now, Detective, I don’t know. But it’s not good.”

  “You think he’s killing them?” he asks.

  “Or maybe he’s helping them disappear, for reasons we don’t know about.”

  Rachel, who just signed the question into my palm, continues holding my hand lightly. As she does so, there is the slightest—slightest—movement of her pinkie against mine. Rubbing, maybe. One can hope.

  We sit quietly around the bench. Some of us more quietly than others. I don’t sense words being exchanged from the other two. Finally, Rachel reaches for my hand, lifts it and presses her fingers into my palm, spelling out the words: “He hates seeing you like this, he says.”

  I smile back and say, “I hate seeing me like this, too.”

  “He’s smiling, Lee. You made him laugh.”

  “He’s simple like that,” I say to her in our private, side conversation. And to Detective Hammer, I sign, “Can you swing by when you find something?”

  “He says he will,” comes Rachel’s reply, and she follows it with another squeeze. A full hand squeeze, this time. It is, I’m certain, the sweetest squeeze I’ve ever felt. I turn to her…and smile.

  At least, I hope I smiled.

  Chapter Nine

  I am sitting on my balcony. It is midday.

  I know this because I can feel the sun on my lifted face. Sometimes, I open my eyelids behind my sunglasses, and when I do…they blink intermittently. All on their own, with no help from me. Sure, I could stop them from blinking, but I don’t. I smile, often sadly. Sometimes, I weep at this. Such a wonderful useful tool to keep our eyes watered and healthy and clear, now lost on me. But I smile because the movement reminds me of better times. And reminds me that I am still human. That maybe I am not so different, after all. That is, of course, until I take off my sunglasses, and someone catches a glimpse into the black depths. I am sure they would scream, or gasp, or gag a little.

  I drink from my water bottle, wishing it was more than water, but not daring to drink alone. Not ever. Yes, I might hate myself for killing my friend and destroying my body, but I don’t hate myself so much that I want to drown in my own vomit.

  Some think I don’t have goals. My brother doesn’t. My brother often encourages me to try new things, to do new things. I respect his opinion. His is often the only opinion I get. My therapist, back in the day, suggested that I try new things, too, to continue to push myself.

  I reminded them that not falling down the stairs is often goal number one for me. I remind them that not getting hit crossing the street is a terrific goal, too. I remind them that walking down to Chango in complete silence and darkness is a Herculean task that isn’t for the faint of heart.

  My brother doesn’t want to hear it and he worries about me. He worries that some street punks will take me down, rob me blind. I remind him that I don’t carry cash and that I’m already blind. I do not know if he laughs at my simple joke or not. I doubt it. These days, my brother seems much too serious. And it’s true, I don’t carry cash. It is, after all, hard to count dollar bills, although I do have a wad of cash in my bedroom, each corner earmarked to let me know which bill is what. Still, a credit card works wonders for me. With that said, I don’t often buy random things alone. When I shop, it’s usually with my brother.

  Yes, there is a special place in heaven—and in my heart—for my brother. He does so much for me, so much. Each Sunday, he brings me groceries. Each Sunday, he goes through the mail with me. He pays my bills online for me. He tells me how much money I have remaining. I often tell him to transfer five bucks to himself for his trouble. He usually doesn’t laugh at the joke. Or at any of my jokes.

  Much too serious, I think now.

  He doesn’t have to help me. I have a handful of friends in the apartment building who would probably go shopping with me. And I could even hire someone to help me, too. I have suggested this, but he waves it off. At least, I think he waves it off. At any rate, he isn’t too keen on the idea of someone else helping me. I told him just last week that I appreciated his help and that I was sorry that I was a burden on him. He signed to me that I wasn’t a burden and what were brothers for? I suggested noogies. I’m pretty sure he laughed at that one.

  Anyway, as of today, in a few minutes, in fact, I am expecting a personal trainer at my apartment. I know this because my brother just text messaged me a reminder. A simple text, to the point, spelled out via Morse code and my vibrating phone. Welcome to my life.

  Truth is, I don’t want a personal trainer to come to my apartment. I have no idea if my apartment is even clean enough to host a guest. I shouldn’t worry what my apartment looks like, but I do. I also worry about what I look like to others. I shouldn’t worry about that, but I do. I dread the moment I open the door and the trainer sees what he’s dealing with and we stand there in awkward silence, because all I know these days is awkward silence.

  I angle my face toward the sun some more. Behind my shades, my eyelids blink sporadically. The blinking makes me sad and makes me smile, too.

  Next to me is a big glass of ice water. Under me, in the shade of the patio chair, is Betsie. She’s out cold. I love her more than words can express. With her, I am never alone, and I do not know what I will do when she finally passes. Maybe, mercifully, I will pass with her.

  A shitty thought that upsets me more than I want it to. I let it run its course, before making an effort to change my focus onto something else.

  The case is perplexing, haunting, troubling, scary and fascinating. It is the kind of case that would keep me up at night, back in the day. The kind of case I would take personally. Now, it’s not keeping me up at night. There’s little I can do about it, other than ponder it, consider it, turn it inside out and upside down. I know, instinctively, for me to take the case further, I need more evidence. Detective Hammer is my eyes and ears and mouth. I hope he brings back some good evidence to work with, to mull over, to analyze. We’ll see.

  And as I carefully set my glass of ice water down on the bamboo patio table, the little buzzer clipped to my belt does just that. Buzzes. Betsie jerks awake, instantly alert.

  Someone’s at my door.

  My trainer.

  Oh, joy.

  Chapter Ten

  His name is Jacky and he’s a boxing trainer from Orange County. A long drive, surely, for what would have to be deemed a lost cause: teaching boxing to the blind.

  Like I said, my brother worries about me, and he’s done a lot for me. Certainly more than anyone. If he wants me to take lessons, and Jacky is willing to drive all the way out here, then the least I can do is humor them both. Besides, my brother seems to be in a bad place right now, growing angrier with me, more impatient, and I want to make him happy.

  Truth is, I wasn’t too worried about being mugged. I had Betsie, and I rarely, if ever, went out after dark. My street is relatively safe and most people know me and keep an eye on me, or so I’ve been told. I’ve also been told that most neighbors make it a point to keep their sidewalks clear for me. When I heard this from a man at Chango, a man who used my spelling blocks to speak to me, I got choked up. I didn’t think anyone cared or noticed me. It’s easy to think that. Truth is, I really don’t know how many people watch me go by their homes, or how many keep an eye on me as I cross the streets. Perhaps more people aid me than I know. It is a pleasant thought.

  As a lark, whenever I approach my front door, I pretend to look through the peephole, which I do now. Nope, still can’t see a thing. I open, having a pretty good idea who’s there, since I’ve been expecting him. When strangers come to the door, I generally wait for Betsie’s reaction. Almost always, her tail begins wagging, letting me know the coast is clear.

  Her tail wags now. In fact, whoever is in front of me is reaching down to give her wide head a good scratching. I know this because I can feel her pushing up against a hand; that, and her tail flicks me repeatedly.

  I smile and nod and hold out my hand. It is greeted by a firm, albeit slightly quivery handshake. And judging by the roughness of it and the callouses, I would guess it belongs to a very old man. And judging by the angle of the handshake, a smallish older man, to boot.

  Great, I think, my brother sends me an old, short trainer.

  Then again, who am I to judge?

  Not to mention, my brother swore Jacky is a miracle worker. My brother, who lives in Orange County, apparently witnessed a woman destroy a professional boxer. A woman Jacky trained. Not to mention, my brother has watched a young man spar with grown men, a young man who frequently has to be pulled off the cowering men after just a few rounds.

  Trained by Jacky.

  Good enough for me, I think, as I step aside to let the man in. After all, wouldn’t hurt to take a few lessons. In the least, I can get some exercise in. And if Jacky was a miracle worker, maybe he really could teach a blind man to box.

  As he steps inside, I remove the small notepad and pen from my front hip pocket. I flip it open and feel for a blank page. Once found, I write: “Hi, my name’s Lee.”

  It does him no good to write back. I might be aces at reading braille, sign language pressed into my palm, and interpreting Morse code through my cell, but, to date, I haven’t mastered feeling pen impressions on paper. For starters, some of the impressions could have been from a few pages back. Mostly, the impressions aren’t deep enough, and my hands aren’t quite sensitive enough, either.

  Which is why I carry a bag of plastic letters in my fanny pack. I also have another bag at home, which I keep on a bar table near the door. Spread over the table are hundreds of small, plastic letters. No doubt the whole setup looks like it belongs in a preschool or kindergarten. I next write on my pad of paper and hold it up for him to read: “Use the letters, if you don’t mind.”

  I do not know if Jacky understands what I want from him, but after a few moments, I feel a light touch on my arm and he guides my hand down to the table and to a row of letters he has spelled out. Good, we’re on the same page, so to speak. I reach for the letters, picking each up in turn, and soon a sentence forms in my mind.

  “My name is Jacky. Your brother sent me.”

  I write on my pad of paper: “Oh, good. You are here for my massage?”

  A few minutes later, he guides my hand to the first letter on the table. It spells out: “Another comedian. Are you ready to box?”

  I write: “Boy, am I. How are we going to do this?”

  A few moments later, he guides my hand again to the first letter of the sentence. “I have no clue. We will figure this out together.”

  I nod and like his can-do attitude. He places a hand on my chest and seems to indicate he wants me to stand still. I do as indicated. Next, I feel the floor beneath me shake a little. The old man, I suspect, is clearing some room in my living room.

  He next takes my elbow and guides me to the center of the living room, where, I note, he moved away the coffee table. To where, I don’t know. I don’t like my furniture moved, admittedly. I need it exactly where it is, exactly where I remember. But I let it slide. He’s here to help, I remind myself. He doesn’t know he upset my world. Maybe, with luck, he’ll return the furniture to exactly where it was. But I doubt it. I will have to memorize a slightly new path.

  Here, I release Betsie’s harness and snap my fingers and point to the direction of the couch. I feel a slight vibration up through the wooden floor. It feels exactly like a big dog trotting away and leaping up onto a couch. Then again, maybe she’s drinking out of the toilet, and I have it all wrong.