A Cure for Suicide

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THE EXAMINER closed the gate behind her with a swift, careful motion. She listened to it shut, and then proceeded. Ahead on the right, outbuildings loomed in the murk of early morning. The sun’s rise was slow; she felt it behind her, coloring the barn with the least possible gesture.

On she continued up the path. A rut in the ground showed a gurney had been dragged past in the night. These were the signs she knew well — it was her profession, her task to know them. A hollow anticipation stiffened in her and grew to a faint point of tension in her cheeks. The gentlest village. Here she was in the gentlest village. The path led her past the barn and on to a tall Victorian house, the door of which stood open. In she went.

The rooms were furnished simply and with taste. Everything about it was identical to all the other houses she had ever been in, in all the villages she had ever been in. But this, this was the gentlest village. There would be things that were different.

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