Thwaite yanked open the door to 6B, he looked startled and sleep-creased. It was seven a.m., and I’d been banging. Loudly. The doorman had just called up to warn him I was on my way, he said, breathless, not inviting me in. Not, needless to say, offering me a Coke. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, crooked fingers gripping the jamb. “Dr. Thwaite,” I said. “Phineas. I think we need to have another talk.” I pulled the crinkled letter from my coat pocket. I’d been practicing what I’d say, and I hoped it had come out intelligibly. After finding the letter the night before, I’d considered going straight to Dr. Thwaite’s, but I thought showing up in the early morning would surprise him more, which would work in my favor. I’d also hoped another dose of pills and night of sleep might help ameliorate my symptoms enough for me to communicate. It seemed maybe to have worked; before walking over to Beekman Place, I’d tried asking directions from someone in the street, and he’d said, “Just take the M50”
