Yes, his face really is so terrible you cannot turn away. And only that thin sheet of glass between you, clouding with his breath. Behind him: the dark scribbles of trees in the orchard, where you walked alone just an hour ago, after the storm had passed, watching water drip from the gnarled branches, stepping carefully over the sodden fruit. At any moment he could put his fist right through that window. And on your side: you could grab hold of this letter opener, or even now try very slowly to slide the revolver out of the drawer of the desk in front of you. But none of this will happen. And not because you feel sorry for him, or detect in his scarred face some helplessness that shows in your own as compassion. You will never know what he wanted, what he might have done, since this thing, of its own accord, turns away. And because yours is a life in which such a monster cannot figure for long, you compose yourself, and return to your letter about the storm, how it bent the apple trees so low they dragged on the ground, ruining the harvest.