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- To several staff of the ER at Memorial Hospital of Pawtucket who made a game effort at making thirty-six hours on suicide watch less bleak and scary.
- To Dr G.M. Surti and all the staff of the Kent Unit at Butler Hospital in Providence, for much more than their compassion, good sense, and humor—although all of that was a big help as well.
- To gentle publisher Steve Berman, at whom I was furious for twenty-four hours—now not so much—and the astonishingly generous secret cabal he rounded up.
- To my friend Michael Thomas Ford, whose excellent, affecting, and really goddamn funny novel Suicide Notes I should have reread two weeks ago instead of day before yesterday. (I should have called him for the promised Tarot reading as well. But I hate the phone and am only recently half rational. I will collect on that promise soon, Mikey.)
- To my family, who shouldn’t have needed to prove they love me but I was (am?) an oblivious, self-involved galoot. Especially to big sister Una, for flying across the continent to feed the cats in my absence—and me when I got back—but never made it seem the appalling imposition it was.
- To Misses Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen, waiting for me when I came home.