And notice, for the first time, evidence of some- thing he’s hiding. Something he keeps dark and deep and does not want to share. “It’s a form of stress-induced insomnia,” he explains, studying the saltshaker. “I’ve been the subject of at least two papers on sleep disorder.” “You’re serious,” I say, astonished. He shrugs his big shoulders, trying to make light of it. “I’ve learned to live with it. To use it to my advantage.” By way of ending the conversation, obviously very un- comfortable for him, he waves the waitress over. She’s been hovering at a polite range, waiting for him to beckon. “Yes?” she asks brightly, basking in his presence. “Any- thing else? More coffee?” “Ice cream,” he says. “Vanilla, one scoop.” “Apple pie under that? It’s good here.” Trapped 105 “I’ll try it next time,” he promises. “Dessert for you, miss?” I shake my head, staring at him. “At this hour? Ice cream?” “We all scream for ice cream,”
