“Well, yes, that’s the lore associated with the diamond, but in this case, with the Shang frogs, it’s something more mystical. You see, the Art Institute has had the one frog for over a hundred years. But you’re not the first person who’s tried to give us the other half of the pair. The fact is, ah…How should I express this?” He put his glasses back on. “We can’t seem to hold on to the other frog once it’s been given to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rather embarrassing, but it just disappears. The Institute reported it as a theft the first few times. Now…well, we’re not sure what to do anymore.”

“But you’d be interested in looking at my frog, wouldn’t you? I mean, it might be a different frog. Or maybe you can hold on to it this time.” I held back from saying, Please. Please take this thing off my hands.

He scratched his head. “There’s a whole protocol that has to be followed with such a donation. You’d first have to fill out the paperwork-”

“You know what?” I said, interrupting him. “Let me just pop home and get the frog to show you. If it seems like you might be interested we can take it from there, okay?”

Before he could answer, I was out the door. I hailed a cab home and told the cab driver to wait. Inside my condo, I snatched the frog, holding it tight in my fist. I ran back to the cab and asked him to take me back to the Institute.

“Hmm,” Mr. Topper said, when I’d placed it on his desk. “You should know I’m not a spotter.”

“A spotter?”

“Someone who can authenticate these things. But this certainly looks like the other one.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”

“So, you’ll take it?”

“We’ll try.” He smiled. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

I became desperate. If this was some kind of cosmic test, I was determined to pass. If I could simply destroy the frog for good, I was certain I’d be back to square one, back where I’d started that night I’d seen Blinda weeks before. I could erase everything that had happened and begin again. This time I would do it right. I would try to take Blinda’s advice and look inside for my happiness, but I would also work to get those things I wanted. I would actually address them. Someone once said that life was not a spectator sport. Unfortunately I’d been sitting on the sidelines lately-way, way back in the bleachers.

Soon, I could think of little else but obliterating the frog. I began watching TV for particularly heinous serial killer stories, hoping for some tips. I took to carrying the frog around with me during the day, looking for that perfect, destructive opportunity.

On Sunday afternoon, I rode the train to Armitage Avenue and walked the street, heading for Lori’s, my favorite shoe store, thinking that since I couldn’t see my therapist, maybe a little shoe therapy would help. Right before I reached the store, I passed a church. One of the doors was open, letting in the cool May air, and I could see a memorial service inside. There was an open casket at the front, mourners lined up to pay their respects.

I had a thought.

But then a war in my head. Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it, the sane side said. This might work, my crazy side retorted. This might actually do it.

Without thinking about it more, I joined the line shuffling to the casket in the front. There were approximately sixty people in the church, most of them murmuring quietly to their neighbor while organ music played in the back. As I reached the casket, I saw a man inside. Either the mortician was not particularly gifted, or this man had been very, very old. His face was as white as the little tufts of hair on his bald head, but there was a serene smile on his face. I panicked. This wasn’t some game. This was a funeral for a very real person, an obviously much better person than me. Guilt twisted my insides. I was a terrible person to intrude.

I shuffled to the left-I had to get out-but then I felt soft pressure on my arm. The priest.

He nodded at me. “It’s okay. We all get scared sometimes. Just pay your respects.”

“No. I…I don’t…I can’t. I didn’t even-”

He nodded again. “It’s okay.” His hand propelled me toward the casket.

“No, I…” But I saw a few people glancing at me, worried expressions on their faces. This was horrible, disrespectful. But protesting further would only create more of a stir.

I took the few steps to the casket and touched the rim with one hand. For some reason, tears sprang to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to the man. He looked like someone’s kind grandpa, the type I’d always wanted to have.

The frog was still in my left hand. I had a thought-What could it hurt? More wars in my head. More wavering. I heard the people behind me shuffling their feet impatiently. The organist began another song.

Finally, without thinking about it anymore, I brought my left hand to the casket and dropped the frog inside. It slid down the side of the casket, invisible in the folds of ivory satin.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

Spring in Chicago can mean fifteen inches of snow or an eighty-degree scorcher. But one Monday, with the end of May quickly approaching, the city hit on the most perfect of spring weather-a balmy breeze, and puffy white clouds dotting a powder blue sky. I’d spent the weekend trying with more and more ferocity to kill the frog, but it was apparently the Terminator of icons, because it would not die. Luckily, Chris had stayed with his parents on Saturday night after a family birthday party, one I’d managed to avoid. I had been nothing but cranky and miserable, and yet when he was around, Chris kept offering food and conversation and love. I wanted that love. More than anything. But it was hard to accept it when I felt that I’d wished it into action, rather than Chris having desired it on his own.

Now, on Monday, I walked back from lunch with two of my clients. I’d told them that I had an appointment on Franklin Street, so I could accompany them to their office. Really, I had no such appointment, and I’d gone totally out of my way, since my office was blocks away, but this was something my first boss had taught me to do; spend as much time with the client as possible, time other people don’t. I’d gotten in the habit, and now it was my routine. But I also loved the client contact, which I got so little of these days, and then there was also the small fact that by avoiding the office, I was avoiding Evan and his unconditional lust.

As we walked, I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times. I gossiped a little about a crisis I’d heard about at another PR firm. I was putting on a good show. Really, I was thinking about the goddamned, fucking frog. It was in my black suede saddle bag, tucked inside the zippered pocket. I could feel it there, pulsing, sending out waves, telling me that I had no control over my life, that there was no free will, that it was all preordained, at least for me. I would always be able to have whatever I wanted, and I would never be happy with it.

Right then, we passed the Sears Tower. “Geez,” said Teresa, one of the clients. “I haven’t been up there in a while.” She glanced up, holding her long brown hair back from her face as the wind picked up and barreled down the street.

We all craned our necks, staring up at the black mirrored building that towered over us like a mountain. A piece of white cloth, possibly an old T-shirt, sailed into our field of view and landed near our feet.

“Where did that come from?” I said.

“It’s like someone dropped it,” Teresa said. We all looked up again.

“Can you imagine falling from there?” said the other client. “Nothing could survive that.”

I stood, still looking up. Teresa and John began walking again, then halted a few feet ahead. “Coming, Billy?” John said.