On March 13, 2013, I found out that my lifelong friend Barbara Weinstein had been killed the previous day in an auto accident. Never before had I experienced shock: the slowness, the sudden lack of familiarity with the most mundane things. Somewhere in that day I went to Cafe Yesterday. They called out what I thought was my coffee. I put creamer in it and then realized it wasn't mine. I did something I never would normally do: I failed to acknowledge my mistake, just walked away. Behind me I could hear the barista bitching: Who did this? This is expensive coffee, now it's ruined. I said nothing. Nothing, nothing at all.