I don't know more than I said I did. And if I do know something, I don't know that I know it. Or that it would mean something to him. I can't tell if he's losing his mind. He doesn't sleep. Ever. And rarely does he eat. He's full of grief. He's paranoid. He trusts no one. He trusts me. He was whispering. With the door shut. I keep going back to that. The whispering. His breath was on my neck, so close to me that it was easy to forget what he was asking me to do. There's something going on.