He wasn’t doing much better on his own couch. His wife’s uncanny mimicry left him numb with confusion.

“Lily, please don’t,” he bleated.

“Oh, just sit back and enjoy.”

“I saw another doctor today!” Shreave practically shouted. “The news is bad!”

Lily ground to a halt. “You went to a new shrink? Why?”

Shreave nodded somberly. “After what happened at the bagel shop, I was desperate. His name’s Dr. Coolidge.”

“Yeah?”

“He says it’s much worse than depression.”

“Go on.” Lily seemed in no hurry to dismount.

“I wrote it on a piece of paper. It’s in my pants,” he said.

“Right or left pocket?”

“Right one, I think.”

As his wife went delving for the note, Sheave squirmed. He had mixed feelings about the stubbornness of his erection-as reassuring as it was after the humiliating episode with Eugenie, it definitely sent the wrong message to Lily.

“Is this even in English?” She frowned at the lined scrap of paper she’d found.

“It says ‘aphenphosmphobia,’” Shreave said. He’d practiced pronouncing it all afternoon-the weird stuff you could find on the Internet was amazing.

“So, what is it exactly?” Lily didn’t sound nearly as concerned as her husband would have hoped.

He said, “Aphenphosmphobia is the fear of being touched.”

“By your wife?”

“No, Lily, by anybody.”

“Touched where?” she asked. “Just on your pecker?”

“Anywhere,” Shreave said impatiently. “Fingers, toes, lips, ears-all skin-on-skin contact triggers what they call a ‘phobic reaction.’ Could be anxiety, the sweats, even a panic attack. Dr. Coolidge says it’s a very rare condition.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s only seen a handful of cases-get it? Handful of cases.”

“Oh, that’s hysterical.” Shreave was appalled at her heartlessness. What if he’d been telling the truth?

He said, “You think this is funny?”

“What I think, Boyd, is that you’re still hard.” Slowly she pressed down on him. “That means one of two things: Either you’ve been miraculously cured, or you’re totally full of shit. Here, let’s take off your pants and try a little experiment-”

Shreave bucked loose and bolted for the den, locking the door behind him. “Look it up yourself!” he called out. “A-p-h-e-np-h-o-s-m-p-h-o-b-i-a.”

Lily knocked lightly. “Open up,” she said.

“Not ’til you apologize.”

“Boyd, I’m sorry. I had no idea.” Lily was smiling on the other side of the door.

Shreave said, “And could you please go put some clothes on? This is torture.”

I’ll bet, thought his wife. “You chill out. I’ll be right back.”

Alone in the den, Shreave began to pace. Being rejected by Eugenie Fonda had imbued him with something that resembled determination, a trait heretofore lacking from his flaccid personality. A quitter by nature, Shreave now felt positively propelled. He was resolved not to let his girlfriend slip away, and not to be diverted by his wife in her fiery thong underwear.

The phone rang on the desk. Shreave didn’t feel like answering; however, he’d been harboring an inane fantasy that his boss at Relentless would call to offer him a second chance. Of course he would demand his old cubicle next to Eugenie.

He picked up the handset. “Yes?”

“Hello, is this the Shreave residence?”

It was a woman. She sounded remotely familiar but then so did everybody these days. Shreave had calculated that during his call shifts at Relentless he’d conversed with at least seven thousand strangers, and had heard just about every kind of accent, dialect, pitch, timbre, drawl, twang and speech impediment on the planet.

He glanced at the caller ID, which read BLOCKED.

“I’m Mr. Shreave,” he said curtly.

“Oh, good. My name is Pia Frampton and I’m calling with a very special offer-”

“Save your breath, lady.” Shreave chuckled mordantly. In happier times he’d been working at the call center during the dinner hour, so he hadn’t had to deal with telemarketers phoning his own damn house.

“Please don’t hang up, Mr. Shreave. If I could just have a minute of your time-”

“You’re new at this, aren’t you, Pia?”

“No, sir-”

“Come on, tell the truth.”

“Okay, yeah. It’s my first week on the job.”

“Thought so,” Shreave said. “Free piece of advice: Don’t ever tell the sucker not to hang up, because all you’re doing is putting the idea front and center in his head. Just keep talkin’, okay? Stick to the script. And don’t beg for a minute of his time because then you sound desperate, and nobody trusts a desperate salesman.”

“Wow,” the woman said.

“It’s what I do for a living, Pia.”

“Seriously? You work at a call bank, too?”

“One of the biggest.” Shreave told her she had a nice voice, almost too nice for the phone.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Lacks authority. It’s too, I dunno, creamy-sounding.”

“Creamy?”

“See, the guys on the other end might want to date you, but that doesn’t mean they’re gonna buy whatever it is you’re selling,” Shreave explained. “Sexy doesn’t work when you’re hawking Krugerrands or discount equity loans. You ever thought about hiring on with one of those adult chat lines? I hear the pay’s pretty good.”

There was silence on the line. Shreave wondered if he’d offended her.

“I was just thinking,” the woman said finally. “Talking to you is just what I needed-all my friends said I wasn’t cut out for this job, and I guess they’re right. Thanks for being so straight with me.”

“Now hold on, don’t give up so easy.” The new Boyd Shreave, dispensing motivational advice. “Tell me what you’re pitching.”

“Real estate.”

“In Florida?”

“Where else,” she said. “West of Naples, on the edge of a swamp. Royal Gulf Hammocks is the name of the company.”

“Raw lots?” Shreave asked.

“Oh yeah. Underwater at least half the year,” she said. “That’s why they save the sales push for winter, when it’s dry.”

“Beautiful. What’s the deal-a free weekend, I bet. And all they’ve gotta do is sit through a sales seminar.”

“And sign a purchase option,” she said, “which you can cancel within thirty days, or so they promise.”

Shreave thought the pitch sounded stale. “It’s been done to death,” he told her.

“No, they also give ’em an ecotour,” the woman said. “That’s the newest angle.”

“A what?”

“A breathtaking ecotour through the Ten Thousand Islands,” she recited, “in kayaks.”

“Well, it’s different.”

The woman said, “I’ve heard it’s real pretty down there. You and Mrs. Shreave ought to go. Heck, you don’t have to buy a darn thing-like I need to tell you.”

“You get a commission on the sign-up?”

“Right, but it’s not much.”

“Never is,” Boyd Shreave said. She’d gotten him thinking.

“Travel included?” he asked.

“Yessir. Two round-trip plane tickets.”

“What about the accommodations?”

“A four-star eco-lodge,” the woman said. “If you can stand the sales push, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

“Yeah, not bad,” Shreave agreed. He and Eugenie had never taken a trip together. They’d never even gone to a motel.

“Only thing is, the offer expires in two weeks,” the woman added. “That’s what it says here on the read sheet.”

Shreave heard the doorknob rattle, then Lily saying: “Let me in, Boyd. I promise not to touch you anywhere.”

Shreave covered the handset and told his wife he’d be out in a minute.

“Let me ask you something,” he said in a low tone to the telemarketer. “Are there really ten thousand islands, or did they just make that up to con the tourists?”

Honey Santana had ferreted out Boyd Shreave’s home number all by herself. Fry had refused to help, and then her brother had made up some fishy excuse, claiming he couldn’t track down Shreave’s lawsuit because the courthouse computers were down.

So, after talking Fry into letting her on-line, Honey had found a person-locator service that was offering a one-day trial-supposedly free, although she had to give a credit card number. Once the Web site was accessed, she typed in “Shreave” and got twenty-seven hits, including several repeats. There were three Boyds, four B.S.’s and two Lilys with the same telephone number and South Willow Street address in Fort Worth.