He walks up the stairs from his basement office, sometimes in the early afternoon, sometimes closer to evening, and hands me a few typewritten pages, which have come to be the best part of my day. The pages, two, sometimes three, are stapled together. On page 1 in big, bold letters is always the title, and underneath are the date and his name, Bruce Beckham.

I am writing this on the last day of March. The “In like a lion, out like a lamb” month. But that was before. When the lions of March were a sweet myth with an exit date.

March? April? Tuesday? Friday? The days blur now. And they inch along. “Is it time for lunch?” “Is it 5 o’clock, yet?” And yet, come night, each day feels too short somehow. Stunted. Where did it go? What did I do today?