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    The next thing he was aware of, a new sound disturbed him, the smooth deep voice of a man who spoke in formal cadences. The voice came from the apartment next door. The voice was ... A television news announcer? Frowning, Pittman turned his gaze from the .45 and fixed it on the stove's mechanical clock. Its numbers whirred 10:03 becoming 10:04. Pittman frowned harder. He had so absorbed himself in the gun that he hadn't been conscious of so much time passing. Hand trembling, he set down the .45. The news announcer on the television next door had said something about Jonathan Millgate.
    "Haven't seen you in a while, Matt." The heavy man, an Italian, had gray hair protruding from the bottom of his Yankees baseball cap. He wore a Yankees baseball jersey as well, and he held a ladle with which he'd been stirring a large steaming pot of what smelled like chicken-noodle soup as Pittman came into the diner.
    The place was narrow, with Formica-topped tables along one side, a counter along the other. The Overhead fluorescent lights made Pittman blink after the darkness of the street. It was almost 11:00 P. M. As Pittman sat at the counter, he nodded to the only other customer, a black man drinking a CUP Of coffee at one of the tables. a "You been sick?" the cook asked. "Is that why you haven't been in?"
    "Everybody keeps saying ... Do I look sick?"
    "Or Permanently hungover. Look at how loose your clothes are. How much weight have you lost? Ten, fifteen pounds? And judging from them bags under your eyes, I'd say you haven't been sleeping much, either."
    Pittman didn't answer. "What'll it be for tonight?"
    "To start with, a favor."
    The cook appeared not to have heard as he stirred the soup. "I wonder if you could store this for me."
    "What?" The cook glanced at the counter in front of Pittman and sounded relieved. "That box?"
    Pittman nodded. The box had once held computer paper. Now it concealed the .45 and its container of ammunition. He had stuffed the box with shredded newspaper so that the gun wouldn't shift and make a thunking noise when the box was tilted. He had sealed the box many times with tape. ' "Just a place to store this," Pittman said. "I'll even pay you for ...
    "No need," the cook said. "What's in it? How come you can't keep it at your place? There's nothing funny about this, is there?"
    "Nah. It's just a gun." "A gun?"
    Pittman smiled at his apparent joke. "I've been working on a book. This is a copy of the printout and the computer discs. I'm paranoid about fires. I'd ask my girlfriend to help, but she and I just had a fight. I want to keep a duplicate of this material someplace besides my apartment."
    "Yeah? A book? What's it about?"
    "Suicide. Let me have some of that soup, will you?" Pittman prepared to eat his first meal in thirty-six hours.
    He'd packed the gun and left it with the cook at the diner because his experience of losing time while he stared at the weapon had taught him there was every chance he might shoot himself before he made good on his promise to work for Burt Forsyth until Chronicle died. The effort of getting through this particular day, the bitterness and emptiness he had felt, had been so intense that he couldn't be certain of his resolve to keep himself alive for eight more days. This way, in the event of overwhelming despair, he would have a chance of regaining control by the time he reached the diner, got the box, and went to his apartment.
    Pittman felt compelled to keep the promise he had made. For eight more days.
    Despite his reluctance, he went back to the hospital. This time, he took a taxi. Not because he was in a hurry. After all, he still had a great deal of time to fill and would have preferred to walk. ]But to get to the hospital, he would have had to Pass through several neighborhoods that became dangerous at this hour. He found it bitterly ironic that in doing his best to postpone his death for eight more days, he had to be extra careful about not dying in