{"product_id":"counting-backwards-isbn-9781641297967","title":"Counting Backwards","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the author of \u003ci\u003eRabbits for Food\u003c\/i\u003e comes a profound and deeply moving new novel about a middle-aged couple's struggle with the husband’s descent into early onset Lewy Body dementia, shot through with Kirshenbaum’s signature lacerating humor.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Gutsy, funny, heart-wrenching.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt begins with hallucinations. From their living room window, Leo sees a man on stilts, an acting troupe, a pair of swans paddling on the Manhattan streets below. Then he’s unable to perform simple tasks and experiences a host of other erratic disturbances, none of which his doctors can explain. Leo, fifty-three, a research scientist, and Addie, a collage artist, have a loving and happy marriage. They’d planned on many more years of work and travel, dinner with friends, quiet evenings at home with the cat. But as Leo’s periods of lucidity become rarer, those dreams fall away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEventually, Leo is diagnosed with early onset dementia in the form of Lewy body disease. When an uncharacteristic act of violence makes it clear that he cannot live at home, he moves first to an assisted living facility and then to a small apartment with a caretaker, where, over time, he descends into full cognitive decline. For years, all Addie can do is watch him die—too soon, and yet not soon enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKirshenbaum captures the pair’s final years, months, and days in short scenes that burn with despair, rage, and dark humor, tracking the brutal destruction of the disease as well as the moments of love and beauty that still exist for them.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLonglisted for the Joyce Carol Oates Prize\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Editors’ Choice\u003cbr\u003eAn Air Mail Editors’ Pick\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Best Fiction Book of the Year\u003cbr\u003eLit Hub’s Most Anticipated Books of the Year\u003cbr\u003eNovel Observations Best Fiction of 2025\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e is to illness narratives what yellow is to the rainbow. It mixes well with others, but it’s going to do its own thing — brighten up a room, get on your nerves, define the beginning of a new day or the end of an old one. Its beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This one couldn’t look away, and didn’t want to.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Unflinching . . . Kirshenbaum threads a narrative that is destabilizing yet compelling.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—The New York Times Book Review - Paperback Row \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Kirshenbaum] has not lost her knack for narrative propulsion or her ear for pitch black comedy . . . Her vision has only become bolder and darker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e abounds in moments of beauty, humor, and tragedy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Leavened with humor, a sharp eye, and bracing asides.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Air Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Binnie Kirshenbaum is a thrilling writer I’d follow anywhere—unflinching, darkly comic, and masterfully stylish—and now, with \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e, a sage on the intricacies of grief, the self, and what it means to love and live in the face of loss. Sharp, penetrating, and powerful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Chelsea Bieker, author of \u003ci\u003eMadwoman \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Godshot\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A novel about the end of life that somehow brims with life, with generosity, humanity, honesty, and, unsurprisingly given the author, bouts of first-class humor. I read all 392 pages in one ten-hour span, unable to stop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Gary Shteyngart, author of \u003ci\u003eOur Country Friends\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards \u003c\/i\u003eis a marvel of modulation—it is beautiful and devastating, heart-wrenching and darkly funny, wry and achingly empathetic. Kirshenbaum has always been a bold and outrageously gifted writer, but this novel is her finest yet.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kimberly King Parsons, author of \u003ci\u003eWe Were the Universe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In short, sometimes painful and sometimes funny vignettes, Kirshenbaum captures the most important details of their final years together as well as the moments they are forced to spend apart, as Leo’s descent into cognitive decline is punctured by violence which means he must be cared for elsewhere. A true love story ends with tears, and \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e is, if boiled down to one thing, surely that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lit Hub\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kirshenbaum, longtime fiction professor at Columbia University and the author of acclaimed \u003ci\u003eRabbits for Food\u003c\/i\u003e, is a practitioner of delectable, witty sentences and, in a mix of Addie’s journal entries and a structure that follows the disease’s seven stages, captures both the grim humour and devastating heartbreak of the situation.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Everything Zoomer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A man diagnosed with Lewy body dementia lives his final years with his wife in New York City, showing the best of Binnie Kirshenbaum’s mordant, cutting comedy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eOur Culture\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Kirshenbaum’s] storytelling chops are evident . . . \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards \u003c\/i\u003e[is] a truly special novel and Kirshenbaum its star.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BookBrowse\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kirshenbaum puts her lively wit to good use, tempering the sadness of her drawn-out depiction of Leo’s deterioration and Addie’s attempts to wrap her head around the ultimately lonely nature of existence. It’s a tour de force.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Kirshenbaum’s raw novel about loss, caretaking, and love, biting humor is used to relate searing observations on marriage, art, friendship, and disease.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The grounded prose makes room for touching moments, as with Leo fumbling with once-familiar objects that now feel foreign to him. The emotional weight of his disease is made resonant, and the novel honors the complexities of the human experience . . . \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e explores the hardships of caregiving, the resultant strain on relationships, and internal conflicts between loyalty and self-preservation.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Foreword Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The literary equivalent of a collage electric with unexpected juxtapositions, \u003ci\u003eCounting Backwards\u003c\/i\u003e is a novel of exquisite sensitivity and artistry.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An exquisitely nuanced mix of bleak humor and heartrending drama.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Binnie Kirshenbaum\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Champagne—the driest, with giddy pinpoint bubbles—to accompany death row's last meal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The writing is splendid . . . and it offers readers a memorable picture of an often wittily acerbic woman trying to find herself in the gray fog of sadness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Nancy Pearl, NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Binnie Kirshenbaum is a rare and remarkable writer. I’ve been waiting anxiously for her new book since the day I finished the last one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michael Cunningham, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hours\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kirshenbaum's barrage of wit in both expository prose and dialogue has the reader in a titter while contemplating issues of recrimination and forgiveness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Her characters are] deeply, even ludicrously flawed, but they’re not figures of fun because they all carry the existential burden of loneliness . . . funny and compassionate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Washington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A refreshingly gimlet-eyed examination of memory, one that cuts through the gauzy layers imposed by time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Time Out New York\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A reality check, sobering truths about family, regret, loss, history . . . Just about the only thing she doesn’t serve up is a happy ending.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The cinematic, effortlessly beautiful descriptions will spark the reader's imagination.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Chicago Tribune\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kirshenbaum refuses to corral what is funny or sad into separate camps, but allows one to flip over into the other, creating unexpectedly poignant effects . . . A litany of longing, at once unsettling and deeply moving.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—San Francisco Review of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Binnie Kirshenbaum is a fearlessly unsentimental storyteller, a gifted comic writer and a thoughtful archaeologist of family life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Gary Shteyngart, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSuper Sad True Love Story\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Writing swift, pointed chapters . . . Kirshenbaum offers hilarious and sage advice in the battle of the sexes. Readers anxious for an entertaining female character to emulate, if only in their fantasies, will find themselves in good company.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kirshenbaum has an original voice and, even better, an original sensibility.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bitter truths [are] rendered palatable by the delicious sauciness of Kirshenbaum's prose.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Binnie Kirshenbaum is an unflinching teller of truths. She’s also sublimely funny.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jenny Offill, author of \u003ci\u003eDept. of Specultation\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lyrical and prosaic, laced with sardonic wit, often hilarious, yet filled with an overwhelming sadness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Review of Contemporary Fiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny, tender, and heartbreaking, often in the same line.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tash Aw, author of \u003ci\u003eMap of the Invisible World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For years, Binnie Kirshenbaum has been one of the funniest and smartest writers we have in the US. Her books have razor sharp teeth and surprising depths.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jessa Crispin, Bookslut \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eBinnie Kirshenbaum\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the story collection History on a Personal Note and eight novels, including \u003ci\u003eRabbits for Food\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOn Mermaid Avenue\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHester Among the Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAn Almost Perfect Moment\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Scenic Route\u003c\/i\u003e. Her novels have been chosen as Notable Books of the Year by \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e, NPR, \u003ci\u003eTIME\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e. Her work has been translated into seven languages.\u003cb\u003eTonight or Tomorrow\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You sit at the edge of the bed watching your husband who looks as if he were sleeping. \u003cbr\u003e      Hooked up to a high-flow oxygen tank, he might be sleeping, but mostly he is dying. A high-flow oxygen tank is not a ventilator. When the subject of things such as ventilators would come up, apropos of nothing other than stories on the news, stories of lawsuits and family battles, Leo invariably said, “No matter what. No artificial means of life support for me.” \u003cbr\u003e      You have the document: Do Not Resuscitate and No Artificial Means of Life Support.\u003cbr\u003e      You, on the other hand, said, “I want to be freeze-dried. Or maybe one of those long-term induced comas.”\u003cbr\u003e      The oxygen will not prolong his life, but it eases the pain of breathing. \u003cbr\u003e      The pain of breathing. \u003cbr\u003e      The oxygen eases the pain. \u003cbr\u003e      For him, the oxygen eases the pain.\u003cbr\u003e      But to ease the pain does not mean there is no pain. \u003cbr\u003e      For you, there is pain.\u003cbr\u003e      The hospice nurse says that if he shows indications of suffering, if he winces or groans or, because not all suffering is externalized, even if you just sense that he might be uncomfortable, you can give him morphine. \u003cbr\u003e      Not all suffering is externalized.\u003cbr\u003e      You eyeball the vial of morphine tablets.\u003cbr\u003e      The hospice nurse tells you that he will, most likely, die tonight. Tonight, or possibly tomorrow.\u003cbr\u003e      The hospice nurse leaves. She has other dying people to visit.\u003cbr\u003e      You take your husband’s hand. You lean over, stroke his cheek, run your fingers through his hair. Such hair. Full. Thick. Boyish, the way it flops over his forehead, but not boyish because it’s white. Eighteen years ago, soon after his fortieth birthday, his hair started going white. Within nine months, it was all white. Prematurely white. “It’s you,” he teased. “Living with you turned my hair white.”\u003cbr\u003e      White hair, disease, death, all of it premature. \u003cbr\u003e      Now, you say, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always good to you. But more than anyone, anything, ever, I loved you. Do you know that I loved you?” Loved. Past tense. He’s not yet dead, and already, you are in the in past tense. \u003cbr\u003e      Tonight, or possibly tomorrow. \u003cbr\u003e      Hurry up, not all suffering is externalized, please hurry up.\u003cbr\u003e      Because, for you, there is pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eDo You See What I See?\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Leo is at the living room window, the curtain pulled to one side, and he’s peering out, like the nosy neighbor trolling for dogs peeing on flower beds or clandestine affairs, or—the snoop’s jackpot—some perv peeking into a woman’s bedroom. Except Leo is the opposite of a snoop. Insofar as the private lives of other people are concerned, he’s pretty much a \u003ci\u003eSo what? \u003c\/i\u003ekind of guy. But, as of late, every night he’s posted himself there at the window. “Come here for second,” he says. \u003cbr\u003e      Across the street, cars are parked bumper-to-bumper, and a sleek bicycle is chained to the streetlamp on the sidewalk in front of the red brick townhouse that’s been there since 1902. Come late April or early May, tulips and daffodils will sprout and bloom from the patches of dirt that ring the trees, but it’s neither late April nor early May. It’s mid-February. When summer rolls around, the full view of the townhouse will be eclipsed by the foliage of the silver maples. \u003cbr\u003e      “What, who, is it now?” you ask.\u003cbr\u003e      “Under the light,” Leo says. “You don’t see Gandhi?” \u003cbr\u003e      “Gandhi?”\u003cbr\u003e      Leo sees Mahatma Gandhi stirring lentils in a pot. An iron pot that hangs from a tripod.\u003cbr\u003e      You don’t see Gandhi. “Is he wearing anything more than a dhoti? If that’s all he has on, he must be freezing. You might want to bring him a coat.” \u003cbr\u003e      Because Leo realizes perfectly well that he is hallucinating, that Gandhi is not out there on the sidewalk stirring lentils in a pot, you feel free to add, “You might want to give him a pair of thick socks, too. I’m assuming he’s barefoot.”\u003cbr\u003e      Leo lets the curtain fall, and, not for the first time over the last couple of months, he says, “I should give Sam a call.” \u003cbr\u003e      Sam is his ophthalmologist, and the way Thanksgiving happens not on a fixed date but firmly on the fourth Thursday in November, Leo’s annual eye exam falls on the Tuesday after Labor Day. Sam examines Leo’s eyes for glaucoma, cataracts, astigmatism, swollen corneas, misshapen corneas, torn or detached retinas, sun damage, any changes in his visual acuity, but, other than nearly imperceptible and inconsequential worsening of common myopia and presbyopia—near- and farsightedness—the structural anatomy and physiology of Leo’s eyes are healthy.\u003cbr\u003e      His eyes are healthy, although his vision stinks. His vision has always stunk. He got his first pair of eyeglasses when he was in kindergarten. Without them, Leo’s world would be an impressionistic wash, and words on the page as easily read as streaks of smudged ink. Contact lenses are out of the question. As far as Leo is concerned, to go poking around your eyes is to court infection, which is fine with you. His glasses become him, in that bookish Clark Kent way. \u003cbr\u003e      Leo’s previous appointment with Sam happened to coincide with the onset of his eyes playing tricks with the light at night. Shadows, pink-colored halos, stripes on the moon, and the incandescent glow of the streetlights turned skyward illuminating the row of rooftops populated with what looked like angels holding hands. \u003ci\u003eAngels\u003c\/i\u003e is your word. Leo is dead set against the likes of angels. He described the angels as something like a blurry string of cut-out paper dolls. \u003cbr\u003e      According to Sam, Leo’s eyes were on the dry side. Nothing serious. He recommended eye drops, Visine in the morning, and that \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e buy a humidifier. “And don’t forget your sunglasses.” \u003cbr\u003e      Sunglasses because blue eyes are more sensitive to the glare of the sun than dark eyes.\u003cbr\u003e      It’s not only the ophthalmologist. Leo maintains annual appointments with a full compendium of physicians: a dermatologist, gastroenterologist, urologist, primary care physician, and although he’s never had a cavity in his entire life nor any sign of gum disease, either—he brushes his teeth with a NASA-grade supersonic toothbrush, plus he flosses \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e uses a Waterpik—he wouldn’t dream of blowing off the date with the dentist. Then there are the flu shots, and not just for himself. Come autumn, Leo starts in hounding you, “Addie, did you get your flu shot? Did you get your flu shot?” until you have no choice other than to lie to him. “I got it this morning. You can stop now.”\u003cbr\u003e      On more than one occasion, you’ve asked him when he is going to make an appointment with a gynecologist. You’ve also suggested he see a psychiatrist. But Leo needs a psychiatrist no more than he needs a Pap smear. He’s as sane as anyone who isn’t mentally ill. This medical checkup religiosity of his has to do only with the dictum: \u003ci\u003eEarly detection is the key difference between dying and living, and not merely living but living with all your vital organs intact, living free from pain. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      You bought a humidifier, and Leo incorporated Visine into his morning routine, but then one night, one of the angels took on the shape of a bald eagle, which flew from the roof and off into the unknown. \u003cbr\u003e      “It must have been the movement of the shadows,” you said, and Leo agreed, but soon after the angel-turned-eagle, there came the man on stilts who walked the length of the block before turning the corner and out of view. \u003cbr\u003e      You wanted to know if the man on stilts was young or old. Did he have a beard, and what was he wearing? But Leo didn’t catch the particulars. “He was moving at a brisk clip,” Leo said. “On stilts.”\u003cbr\u003e      The hallucinations occur only sporadically, one per week, two tops, but Leo has been keeping track of them, dates and times on a sheet of graph paper, and in a small spiral-bound notebook with a green cover, he writes the narrative descriptions in pencil. It’s uncharacteristic of him not to document his notes on the computer, and his preference for using pencil and not a pen is equally baffling because of how, over time, pencil fades and how easily it is erased. \u003cbr\u003e      People who see ghosts tend to see the same ghost wafting down the same staircase, but none of the characters populating Leo’s wacko hallucinations have returned for a repeat performance. However, a distinct pattern has emerged: these ornate, vividly articulated visions, like the earlier halos and angels, are seen exclusively from your living room window and they occur between nine and eleven at night, with two exceptions: the cauldron of bats emerged from a cave and flew en masse up to the moon at 8:32, and it was close to midnight when the troupe of actors arrived, smack in the middle of the street, illuminated by streetlamps like torches in an amphitheater, treating Leo to a snippet of \u003ci\u003eA Midsummer Night’s Dream\u003c\/i\u003e, Act IV, scene i, Titania, Bottom, and the whole slew of fairies. \u003cbr\u003e      The following night, you called Leo to the window. “Look. It’s Hitler and Leni Riefenstahl. They’re making a movie.” \u003cbr\u003e      “I’m not amused,” he said, but he was amused, and you laughed as if these hallucinations were nothing but one more example of Leo’s personality peculiarities, no different from the way he uses three towels, per shower, to dry off, or from that time he came home with eleven different kinds of salt: Himalayan pink, black lava, Alaskan flake, and who knows what else. They all tasted the same. They all tasted like salt. \u003cbr\u003e      The frequency of the hallucinations remains more or less constant, but your level of concern is rising to the point where it’s become too tall to suppress, and now when, yet again, Leo mentions casually that he ought to check in with Sam, your response is not casual, as it was before. “Yes,” you say. “You do. How about tomorrow, okay? First thing. Promise me?”\u003cbr\u003e      Promise. How many people keep, or even try to keep, every promise made? You know of no one, other than Leo. True to his word, first thing in the morning, he calls Sam’s office, only to learn that Sam is on vacation, a month in Belize.\u003cbr\u003e      You suggest that, instead of waiting for Sam to return, maybe he should see someone else, but no. Leo is Boy Scout loyal to his physicians, all of whom have been carefully and critically vetted. \u003ci\u003ePhysician\u003c\/i\u003e is Leo’s word. Not \u003ci\u003edoctor. Physician\u003c\/i\u003e, which does not necessarily connote respect. The same way the FBI flags any applicant who’s racked up frequent-flier miles with Aeroflot, Leo is highly suspicious of any physician who goes around blithely prescribing whatever newly approved FDA wonder drug that whichever pill-pusher from Pfizer happened to be selling that day. Leo’s physicians investigate, for themselves, things like trial reliability, statistical efficacy, and potential side effects because, yes, this drug decidedly alleviates cluster headaches, but it’s also possible that your liver will explode. Leo values their intellectual and professional curiosity, and he respects their expertise within their field, for the part of the body on which they’ve staked their claim, the same way he respects skilled electricians and the woman who cuts his hair.\u003cbr\u003e      Now, regardless of his high regard for Sam, a month is a long time, and you remind him, “What about early detection and all that?”\u003cbr\u003e      “He’ll be back in three weeks,” Leo says. “Whatever it is, it’s not an emergency. There’s no reason to worry. Trust me, okay?”\u003cbr\u003e      You do trust Leo. You trust him implicitly and always, but nonetheless you have to wonder how, from a sixth-floor window down to the street, he was able to see the lentils in Gandhi’s pot.","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233053257957,"sku":"NP9781641297967","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641297967.jpg?v=1767724175","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/counting-backwards-isbn-9781641297967","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}