Twice Donald did something with his mouth I hadn’t seen before: oldbaby grin. His eyes locked on mine as the joke lawyer ran down ifs if nots we hope nots billable. Which Dickens he was I don’t know––heep or Tulkinghorn or nothing more vile than flat eyes and a tight tie. Donald was mute, his mouth making the strange smile as he walked his stick down a steep street. Gin on an empty stomach and he was out, mechanically shoveling in haddock. Three times I asked Are you okay, can you hear me? and his hand poked fries into his mouth, speechless black hole I wish were fiction.