“‘Black Bag’ is my fanciful attempt to solve a murder that might not have happened a long, long time ago. “To solve” does me too much justice, both in terms of the actual and the memory of it. Year after year when I was a kid I came down with strep throat, and the doctor who took care of me was undoubtedly as innocent as the 24-hour day, but somebody took out the villain who had murdered several women. When I saw the gun in my doctor’s medical bag, it didn’t register with me then. But now? What a story! Maybe. This is the first time I’ve submitted it. I’m not sure the point—we all carry a gun in our black bag—will get across; on the other hand, words aren’t hammers, and readers aren’t nails. Writers—I, at any rate—prefer a more indirect approach: an insinuation, like medicine that works slowly but to a purpose, of truth that, when grasped, might not solve anything, but does clear the way for a new and better question. Getting closer is what it’s all about. Have I?”

“This was something I just had to verbalize once the lightbulb went on over my head after I texted my son, but never knew where to find it a home.”

“One evening I was remembering details from when my son was in the hospital with brain swelling when he was 5. It was not difficult to remember details, but it was hard to make sense of it. I tucked it away until now.”