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other. I would have studied the naked blackberry canes in the frozen ground outside my window, I would have thought about writing my letter of resignation to Outreach’s board of directors, I might even have imagined a move to California or the Southwest. But it was not like any other day, and so I got Michael Finn.
    When Emily buzzed me and announced that a new client had just walked through the door, I thought it would be a small-time thief or a junkie, perhaps the court had sent over a fisherman arrested in a local bar or an abusive mother forced into therapy by the law. I never thought, as I opened the door and reached for the case file Emily handed me, that it would be anyone special. When I went back to my desk Michael Finn stood by the open door, hesitating. His long hair fell over the collar of his leather jacket. He leaned on the door and looked in at me.
    â€œWhy don’t you sit down?” I said, pointing to the chair on the other side of the desk.
    â€œNo thanks,” Finn said, but he did come into the office then; he closed the door behind him.
    The only facts Emily had written into the file were his name, his address, and his age—twenty-nine. I looked over the top of the manila folder. “You haven’t been referred by the court?” He would be my only client not forced into therapy, not ordered to produce his psyche at a given hour, legally bound to bare his soul twice a week.
    â€œThat doesn’t mean I want to be here,” Finn told me.
    His eyes were the kind that could electrify with just one look.
    â€œWhy don’t you have a seat?” I suggested. “We’ll never be able to talk this way.”
    Finn shrugged and sat down. He stretched out his legs and crossed them, obviously waiting for me to make the first move.
    â€œCigarette?” I offered the pack on my desk. I, kept it there for new clients under stress, though sometimes I, too, needed to smoke.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy did you decide to come to Outreach? You must have had a reason.”
    â€œI didn’t know where else to go,” he said.
    â€œI hope I can help you,” I said reassuringly.
    â€œI doubt that,” Finn said as he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit a match, inhaled. “I don’t think anyone can help me.”
    â€œIf you really thought that, you wouldn’t be here,” I smiled.
    â€œI am here, aren’t I?” Finn agreed.
    â€œLet’s start,” I suggested, but neither of us spoke. A thin scar ran across Finn’s cheek, from his left eye to his ear; his wrists were knotted with long, blue veins. “Why have you decided to come for therapy?”
    â€œI have to talk,” Finn said simply.
    â€œAll right,” I nodded. “Good,” I said. “About what?”
    Finn looked at me carefully. “I’m the bomber,” he said.
    I had been scribbling notes in Finn’s file—“anxious,” I had written, “extremely ill at ease.” Now I looked up and met his eyes. “What?” I said. “What was that?”
    â€œThe power plant,” he said. “I’m the bomber.”
    I put down his file and reached for one of my cigarettes. Carter had always warned me against the danger of nicotine, and it now seemed my breath was terribly irregular.
    â€œActually,” Finn continued, “it wasn’t a bomb. It was a valve I reworked, and when it blew the gas tanks caught fire. But in court they’ll call it a bomb, so I might as well do the same.”
    â€œCourt?” I said.
    â€œEventually they’ll figure it out,” Finn said. “I’ve already been taken to the police station for questioning.”
    â€œJust a minute,” I said. “Wait one minute.” Michael Finn looked nothing like the bomber I had imagined. That bomber was taller, he walked with a limp, he carried a briefcase full of dynamite, and he wore black gloves.