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“Carol Davis.”

“Right. Carol Davis. A very … determined woman.”

“Politely put.”

At least that brought a little smile to Snider’s face.

“She tried to bribe me to release you from here.”

“Yeah, Carol has no scruples when it comes to money.”

“But money isn’t my concern, Mr. James. Right now, you’re under my care. I’m the one who, as you so aptly put it, gives you the drugs. If I sign the discharge papers, I’m literally releasing you into the world.”

“I just want to go home.” Tristan ignored the fact that an empty apartment awaited him there. “And … It’s not like I’ll go completely off the rails if you release me into the world. The longer I stay here, the sicker I feel. I’m not made to be locked up. I …”

“You’re an artist,” Snider said, sighing. “I know. We’ve been through this before.” The psychiatrist crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head slightly.

Tristan grimaced. He prided himself on his persuasive skills, but this man was a tough nut to crack. “Come on, Doc. I need to be back on stage soon. If I don’t show up there …”

“Do you want to be on stage?”

No.

“Of course!” This lie brought back the queasy feeling in his stomach. What else do I have? “Back to normalcy. That’s what you’re advocating for, isn’t it?”

“You won’t be able to maintain this façade forever,” Snider predicted. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want? Because if you don’t want to leave, don’t want to go on stage, and don’t want to go home, I can offer you refuge here.”

Tristan bit his lip, sitting back in the chair with his legs spread wide and arms crossed, staring down at the gray linoleum floor as he searched for the right answer. When he opened his mouth to give the psychiatrist what he wanted to hear, a knot formed in his stomach once again. He felt like a hunted animal in a labyrinth with no way out. Tapping his right leg, he tousled his hair nervously. His locks were long again, falling over his forehead and ears, but he didn’t have a hair tie to pull them back.

“Be honest with yourself.”

Surprised, Tristan raised an eyebrow. The fact that the old man suddenly sounded so understanding was something entirely new. After all, Tristan had been here for almost three weeks. What had changed? Or was it the pressure of the upcoming concert that was gradually becoming palpable? Just the thought of the next gig made Tristan shudder.

“How does it matter if I want to go back or not when the whole tour is already planned?”

“How do you feel about it? Is there anything you can do about it?”

Baffled, Tristan hung his head. “O Captain! My Captain! If I only knew.” Since the day Milo died, this poem had been swirling in his mind, as if it held the answers to all his questions.

“You’d rather quote Walt Whitman than tell me how you feel?”

“No idea why.” Tristan sighed, sweeping his locks from his forehead. “It seems fitting right now.”

“So you feel torn?”

“Not appropriate enough for you? Or are you more of a Wordsworth type?”

“Enlighten me with a passage,” Snider encouraged him, pleased.

“I guess, that would be: ‘We will grieve not, rather find / Strength in what remains behind.’”

“And that would be?”

“Figure it out yourself. I’m not about to dishonor Wordsworth’s genius by vomiting it at your feet.”

Snider smiled understandingly, and Tristan knew that the doctor was familiar with Wordsworth’s Ode.

It wasn’t the first time they had discussed poetry. Tristan found solace in poetry, and Snider enjoyed every verse he recited.