I ran up the steps of the brownstone and tried the latch. The door was open. I let myself in. The clink of bottle against glass came from the kitchen. I threw my rain-soaked coat onto the hall bench, kicked off my shoes, and walked to the back of the house.

Bob was at the kitchen table, pouring himself a large scotch with very shaky hands. He was ashen-faced and cigarette smoke wreathed his head. The ashtray on the table was overflowing with butts.

I squatted in front of him. “What’s going on, Bob?” I asked gently. He didn’t react; didn’t even look at me.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen him like this before. Indeed, this was a fairly certain sign that the cheese had slipped off his cracker again. He was pretty reliable about keeping up with his regimen but, every once in a while when he was feeling especially good, he let his medication slide. And that led inevitably to the voices and to the eyes peering at him from dark corners.

“Hang tight, buddy.” I took away the scotch, and went in search of his pills.