BY THE TIME KEVIN LIMPED UP TO HIS BUILDING, HE'D already forgotten how he got there. Bus? Taxi? The hospital people wanted to keep him a couple of days, but a quick review of the finances had both parties agreeing it was better if he just went home.

I can just see him that night, all busted up and lumpy, moving slow like an old man, with that lost look on his face. Like, yeah, Kevin, you finally figured out life ain't like one of your cartoons.

Kevin's left arm was in a sling, and he was carrying a plastic hospital bag in his right. No gloves, no hat, which meant his nose, ears, and fingertips all felt like they were getting sprayed with hydrochloric acid. He was still out of it, but the fog was lifting. He had no way of closing his jacket, and so that icy wind striking against his body made him cower.

As if all that weren't enough, whatever meds they gave him were on their last legs. Little pins and needles stabbed him whenever he moved his knee, hip, neck, or shoulder. That part was a sneak-preview teaser of coming attractions.

Kevin shimmied the plastic bag back to his elbow and fumbled for his keys. He dragged himself into the building and then onto the elevator. The place felt dark and threatening and claustrophobic. His creative visions were gone. All the light and good in the world had left him, and he was scared and cold and shivering and broken and hurt, and he was all by himself.

The low point of the cycle usually came fast and hard right after the high point, but never like this.

The elevator made a pinging sound and opened up on Kevin's floor. He stepped out. He turned the corner and made his way carefully down the hall.

Then he got to his door and set down the hospital bag.

Kevin had two deadbolts and a regular lock above the knob. He undid the first deadbolt, and then the second, but the regular lock wasn't working right. He fiddled with it for a minute and then he understood: Somebody had already unlocked it.