It was the artist’s job to open herself up, let herself be guided to whatever the next step might be. Today was not a day when things were going well. Work on the new box wasn’t off to a great start. She was having a hard time making any kind of decisions: Should she use a photo of Gary, or make a little Gary doll to sit at the table with the gray-haired stranger? And what would she put on the table? It seemed a huge responsibility, choosing his last meal. Of all the scenes she’d re-created so far, this one relied the most on her imagination. All morning, she’d felt Gary’s presence so strongly there with her that she was sure he’d been watching over her shoulder, mocking her. She could smell him, almost taste him in the air around her. What do you think you’re doing? he asked as she stared dumbly at the empty wooden box she’d just made. “Trying to understand why the last thing you ever said to me was a lie,” she said out loud, her voice full of bitterness. It wasn’t only that final lie that bothered her—it was everything that had happened in the days leading up to it.
