Once, on a frigid morning, I found him outside the walls of the Catanian consulate, bloody and weeping. He’d slit his own wrist. It was an inefficient method and the location public; he’d meant to be found. I gave him first aid and accompanied him to a clinic. Later I dragged him to a nearby bar—the kind that opens round the clock—and bought him mocktails until he stopped crying. He never did tell me why he’d attempted suicide, and soon after he disappeared entirely. It took time to track him to Septet. A world for lost things.
