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misery. But the voice was gone all too quickly, its words melting in my mind before I could catch their meaning. The only thing left was a scent, like the wafting aroma of fresh baked bread upon the air. And grasp after it as much as I tried, it would not be had. I was left with a sense of something supernatural, something outside my present experience that began to gnaw at me.
    I spent the next few weeks in the tedious act of waiting. Each day gave birth to another just as long and as dull as its predecessor. Each day was a torment that had to be endured. My writing from those weeks was filled with sporadic thoughts. Unable to focus for long, I felt as if my ideas darted hither and thither like jackrabbits. I would make lists in my head of what to bring, what to wear, and what to say upon my first encounter with Dr. Emory—foolish things really, things of no consequence—but I could not stop obsessing over them. There was no need to worry, but the worrying kept me occupied. It passed the time. I smoked like a chimney from sunrise to sundown. I even snuck out of class to smoke. It was a terrible habit. I knew it, but I relished the rebelliousness of it. I determined not to smoke while I met with Dr. Emory. He might be highly opposed to the habit. So on the day of my departure, I smoked one last succulent cigarette before walking to the train station.

CHAPTER 5
    The Emory Residence
    I PURCHASED MY TICKET AND waited on a long wooden bench. Dressed in my Sunday best, I began to sweat. My thick suit pants were soon sticking to my legs, and I quickly shed my suit coat. Droplets of sweat formed on my forehead and neck. The sun seemed ungodly hot for this time of day. Abandoning the bench, I stood underneath the shade of a shallow overhang and continued to wait and sweat and wish for another cigarette. A few minutes after ten o’clock, the train pulled into the station with whistles blaring and clouds of hot steam billowing onto the platform. A man shaped like an apple seemed to fall from the train. His black conductor’s hat and silver pocket watch let everyone know that this was his train. The sweaty passengers climbed on board and shuffled around, looking for open seats. Near the back of the car, I saw an opening and slipped into a window seat. Clutching my small travel bags, I leaned forward, resting my head against the green seat in front of me, and closed my eyes. The train began to move jerkily along the steel tracks. People waved good-bye to the few remaining stragglers at the station. I did not bother. I did not care. I just wanted a cigarette to calm my nerves.
    I stared blankly out the window, my trance only briefly interrupted by a man walking through the cabin punching tickets. I nervously continued my observation of the surrounding landscape as the world rolled by in waves of trees and fields and small towns. The sun was high overhead and beating down oppressively. The oppressive Georgia heat was nearly unbearable. Two small ceiling fans revolved in slow motion, doing nothing but push the scalding air into the flushed faces of the passengers. Everywhere people were stripping down to the bare minimum of attire while remaining decent. I undid the top button of my shirt and loosened the black tie that threatened to strangle me.
    At long last, the train puffed into the Locklear station, and I disembarked onto the wooden platform where an odd assortment of people milled about in a large crowd. I stood anxiously gazing around the platform, unsure what to do next. After a few minutes, a thick man waddled out of the crowd. He was wearing a tan suit with a pocket watch chain dangling from its vest pocket and was furiously dabbing at his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief in need of washing. His thinning hair was combed perfectly in an attempt to conceal the demise of his hairline, and he wore small, round glasses pushed halfway down his nose. His cheeks were a vibrant shade of red, and he looked somewhat disgruntled but