The river was gray. The sky was gray. The concrete walls of the island facility were gray. Frank Kovac sat on the edge of his bunk and watched the gray water move past the window, and he thought about how gray everything was, and he thought about how gray he felt, and then he stopped thinking about it because thinking about it did not change anything.

He had been on the island for eleven days. Eleven days of the same thing: wake up at seven, eat breakfast at seven-thirty, watch the river until ten, eat lunch at noon, watch the river until three, eat dinner at six, watch the river until sleep. Sometimes a doctor asked him questions. He gave short answers.

The doctor's name was Evans. He was young, maybe thirty, with a face that still believed in answers. He sat across from Frank in a small room with a metal table and two chairs and a window that looked out at the Ohio River.

"Frank," Evans said, "can you tell me about your wife?"

"Catherine," Frank said.

"Can you tell me what happened to her?"

"The mill closed. She kept working. The explosion..." Frank stopped. He did not need to stop. He had said this before. He would say it again. "She died."

"Do you feel responsible?"

"No."

"Do you feel guilty?"

"No."

"Do you feel anything?"

Frank looked at him. "So what?"

Evans wrote something in his notebook. Frank could not read his handwriting. It looked like a spider had run across the page and died.

"Frank," Evans said, "you were in the bathroom when the explosion happened."

"Yeah."

"You should have been on the floor."

"Yeah."

"Three people died. Three supervisors. They were your friends."

"Maybe."

"You killed them."

"Maybe."

"Frank, you're a patient here. You're not on trial. But you need to face what happened."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Frank ate his breakfast the next day. Coffee, toast, eggs. The same as always. He watched the river. The river was gray. He smoked a cigarette. The ash fell into a tin lid on the windowsill. He played solitaire with old Joe. He won three hands. He lost four. He dealt again.

Evans came back the next day. And the next. He asked the same questions in different words. Frank gave the same answers in the same words. "Catherine." "The mill." "The explosion." "Okay."

On the fourteenth day, Evans sat down heavily in his chair and put his notebook on the table and looked at Frank with an expression Frank could only describe as defeated.

"Frank," Evans said, "I have been doing this for six years. I have seen men who killed their children. Men who burned down their own businesses. Men who shot their brothers over nothing. I have seen them all. And I have never seen anyone who just... doesn't care."

"I care," Frank said.

"Then why does it sound like you don't?"

Frank thought about this. He thought about Catherine's face. He thought about the sound of the explosion. He thought about the thirty-two seconds he had spent in the bathroom, alone, while the mill burned around him. He thought about the phone call he had received at 3 AM, when the police had called to tell him that Catherine was dead.

"I care," he said again. "But caring doesn't change anything. She's dead. The mill is closed. I'm here. The river is gray. So what?"

Evans closed his notebook. He stood up. He walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the frame and looked back at Frank.

"So what," he said quietly. And then he was gone.

Frank ate his breakfast. He watched the river. The river was gray. He smoked a cigarette. He dealt a hand of solitaire. He won. He lost. He dealt again.

The river flowed. Frank Kovac sat on his bunk and watched it go by, and he was fine with that.