few weeks ago, when he’d arrived early for a meeting, Gordon had sat in some nearby gardens, beside a lichen-covered reproduction of David: nose sheared off, a limb hewn away. And ever since, he hasn’t been able to shake the image of a shattered statue—not just a missing arm, but a literal pile of rubble; disembodied lips and fingers, a jumble of barely distinguishable body parts. Gordon has the overwhelming feeling that what he’s doing here—at group, with Rob, in every part of his life—is attempting to use those fractured, misshapen pieces to build something new. And the realization dawning
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