The doctor is bawling his eyes out in his mother’s kitchen. He has spilled a glass of milk. He feels guilty for the money he has wasted his mother. He feels guilty for the wasted efforts of the milkman. He worries that the milkman might be his father and that if so he has let down his real father by spilling the milk. He feels guilty that he might be a reminder of a betrayal for the man he calls his father. He spends the rest of the week staring into the mirror. He watches something writhe and pulse below his ribcage. He pulls out a scalpel. He invents history. His guilt will only grow.