I’m okay, he tells himself, just breathing a little hard. Bad new always does that—those louse med boards and the break-in on Tremont. Not that he owned much then. Need a drink—shit they said no alcohol. No meat, no reefer, no coffee. Be sleepy the rest of his life. Have to call people. Not now, tomorrow. Go back to work, act regular, keep busy. Give stuff away—that could be fun. The Kline lithographs. No should sell them, may need money later. That’s it. Go to bank, look up balance. Get everything liquid and spend it. Take a cruise. No. Could be years yet. Be sensible. Go to work, joke about it then let them take you for Thai or sushi. Could be years, could be faster. Buy vitamins, a scarf, heating pad, new snow tires. He reaches his building, enters the lobby and steps in the elevator. Pushes nine for his floor.