February 2024

James didn’t take the second dose that night.

He stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, the pill in his hand, a glass of water already poured. He had taken it the same way for weeks. No thought. No hesitation. Just part of the sequence that got him to sleep. He set it back down. Not a declaration. Just… not tonight. He stayed there another minute, as if something else should follow. Nothing did.

The first night felt familiar. He slept in fragments, waking once around three, then again closer to five. Each time, he listened before opening his eyes. The tinnitus was there. Not sharp. Not gone. Just… present.

By morning, it had settled lower than it had been weeks earlier. Not quiet, but less intrusive. He stood at the sink, noticing it the way he might notice a background sound in the lab—there, but not demanding. The coffee machine clicked behind him. He reached for the mug, then stopped. He poured it out before it finished brewing.

Decaf.

He stood there for a second, staring at the cup like it had personally offended him. “Thirty-two years,” he said quietly. “Now we’re doing this.”

The next morning, he woke earlier than usual. Not from anxiety. From habit. He went downstairs, stepped onto the elliptical, and started the same routine he had followed for years. Same pace. Same timing. Same internal clock measuring distance and resistance. Halfway through, he stopped. Not because he was tired. Because he realized he had no idea why he was doing it the same way. He slowed the machine to a stop and stepped off. The room felt different standing still. He stayed there a moment, then moved to the corner where Deanna had once tried to convince him to do yoga with her.

“You’re too tight,” she had said.

“I’m efficient,” he had replied.

She had looked at him. “That’s not the same thing.”

He found the mat folded against the wall. Unrolled it awkwardly. Stood there, unsure what came next. He pulled up something on his phone. A beginner sequence.

“Beginner,” he said. “Good.”

The first few movements felt unnatural. Too slow. Too deliberate. His body resisted the lack of urgency. Halfway through, he almost stopped. Then didn’t.

Later that day, he tried to play guitar. It had always been his release. Not structured. Not disciplined. Just something he could fall into after a long day. He sat down with it, adjusted the tuning, ran through a few familiar progressions. The notes came easily. The feeling didn’t. He stopped after ten minutes. Set it down. Sat there for a while. That unsettled him more than anything else had.

At the lab, nothing outwardly changed. But he was paying attention differently now. Not just to the cases. To himself inside them. When he moved too quickly, he noticed. When he slowed down, he noticed. When his thinking felt clear, he noticed. And when it didn’t, he noticed that too. He started keeping track without writing anything down.

Time of day.

Sleep the night before.

Whether he had taken the medication.

What he had eaten.

It wasn’t systematic. But it was deliberate.

By the third day, he saw a pattern he didn’t like. On the medication, the edges softened. But so did something else. Processing felt slightly delayed. Not impaired. Not incorrect. Just… dulled. He thought of what the psychiatrist had said. Trade-offs. He thought of what the neurologist had said. Processing speed. Margin. He hadn’t asked the question directly. But he knew enough.

That evening, Stan came by. They had done this for years. No schedule. No announcement. Just showing up with time and something to drink. Stan walked in, looked at the counter, and stopped.

“Herbal tea?” he said.

James nodded. Stan stared at the cup. “I don’t know you anymore.”

James handed him a glass. “You’ll survive.”

Stan sat down. “This feels like a setup,” he said.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Intervention? Cult?”

James smiled. “I’m trying something.”

Stan took a sip of his wine. “That’s how it starts.”

They sat for a moment, letting the usual rhythm settle in. James broke it. “I’ve been on medication,” he said.

Stan nodded slowly. “For what?”

“Anxiety. Tinnitus.”

Stan didn’t react immediately. “Helping?”

“Yes,” James said. “And no.”

Stan leaned back. “That’s accurate.”

James looked at him. “You’ve taken this kind of stuff?”

Stan shrugged. “Over the years? Yeah. Not exactly the same, but close enough. Didn’t like how it made me feel,” Stan said. “Took the edge off. Also took the edge off everything else.”

James nodded. “That’s what I’m noticing,” he said.

Stan took another sip. “You thinking of stopping?”

“Easing off,” James said. “Trying to see what’s actually me and what isn’t.”

Stan watched him. “That’s not a quick answer,” he said.

“I know.”

They sat quietly for a minute. Then Stan said, “You hear about Peter?”

James looked up.

“No.”

“Pancreatic,” Stan said. “Late.”

James exhaled slowly. Peter had been one of the senior SCPMG partners. Larger than life in meetings. Sharp. Confident. The kind of physician who filled a room without trying.

“How long?” James asked.

“Not long,” Stan said. “They caught it late.”

James nodded. Another name shifting categories. From present. To memory.

“You ever notice how fast that happens now?” Stan said.

James didn’t answer right away. Nomura came to mind. Not just his work. The decline. Subtle at first. Then undeniable. Alex was different. Faster. Less warning. One day there, the next not. He had never really processed either one. There had always been too much else to do.

“We’re at that age,” Stan said.

James gave a faint smile. “I thought we were already past that age.”

Stan laughed once. “Apparently not.”

Stan looked at the view of the Queen’s necklace. “I’m retiring.”

James looked at him. “For real?”

Stan nodded. “Couple months.”

“You’ve been saying that for ten years.”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “This time I mean it.”

“What changed?”

Stan shrugged. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t want to spend the next five years saying I should have stopped five years ago,” Stan said.

James nodded.  “I want to play golf while I still can,” Stan added. “Not when it becomes a rehabilitation exercise.”

James smiled. “That’s a compelling argument.”

“It is.”

They sat with that. Then James said, “Everyone’s leaving.”

Stan didn’t correct him. “Or dying,” James added.

Stan nodded once. “Yeah.”

James leaned back. “I don’t think I can keep doing it the same way,” he said.

Stan looked at him. “Then don’t.”

James smiled faintly. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” Stan said. “Not easy.”

When Stan left, the house felt quieter than usual. Not empty. Just… clearer. Deanna was in the living room. She had a notebook open, but she wasn’t writing. He sat beside her.

“Stan’s retiring,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Peter has pancreatic cancer.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I heard.”

They sat there for a moment.

“Nomura,” James said.

She nodded.

“And Alex.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

“It’s happening,” he said.

“Yes.”

Then Deanna said, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

He looked at her. “What?”

She hesitated, not because she was unsure, but because she was choosing how to say it.

“I don’t want to wait,” she said.

“For what?”

“For us,” she said.

He didn’t respond immediately.

“I don’t want to keep saying we’ll travel when things settle down,” she continued. “Or when the lab slows down. Or when the timing is better.”

He looked at her.

“I want to go places with you while we’re still… like this.”

He smiled faintly. “Like what?”

She reached for his hand. “Like us.”

He felt that. Not pressure. Not urgency. Just truth.

“I think I’m getting there,” he said.

She studied him. “Getting where?”

He took a breath. “To letting it go.”

She didn’t react. Didn’t celebrate. Didn’t push. She just held his hand.

Upstairs, Tess moved quietly. He could hear her, the familiar rhythm of someone who had been part of their home long enough to move through it without announcing herself. He thought about that. How long she had been there. How much she had seen. Selah growing up. Deanna’s long nights. His long days.

If things changed—they would change for her too. He hadn’t thought about that until now. Another piece. Another responsibility. He leaned back against the couch. The tinnitus was there. Not loud. Not gone. Just enough. The signal. He wasn’t trying to silence it anymore. He was starting to understand it. And for the first time—he wasn’t afraid of what it was telling him.

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