Excerpt from Counting Backwards by Binnie Kirshenbaum, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Leo lets the curtain fall, and, not for the first time over the last couple of months, he says, "I should give Sam a call."

Sam is his ophthalmologist, and the way Thanksgiving happens not on a fixed date but firmly on the fourth Thursday in November, Leo's annual eye exam falls on the Tuesday after Labor Day. Sam examines Leo's eyes for glaucoma, cataracts, astigmatism, swollen corneas, misshapen corneas, torn or detached retinas, sun damage, any changes in his visual acuity, but, other than nearly imperceptible and inconsequential worsening of common myopia and presbyopia—near- and farsightedness—the structural anatomy and physiology of Leo's eyes are healthy.

His eyes are healthy, although his vision stinks. His vision has always stunk. He got his first pair of eyeglasses when he was in kindergarten. Without them, Leo's world would be an impressionistic wash, and words on the page as easily read as streaks of smudged ink. Contact lenses are out of the question. As far as Leo is concerned, to go poking around your eyes is to court infection, which is fine with you. His glasses become him, in that bookish Clark Kent way.

Leo's previous appointment with Sam happened to coincide with the onset of his eyes playing tricks with the light at night. Shadows, pink-colored halos, stripes on the moon, and the incandescent glow of the streetlights turned skyward illuminating the row of rooftops populated with what looked like angels holding hands. Angels is your word. Leo is dead set against the likes of angels. He described the angels as something like a blurry string of cut-out paper dolls.

According to Sam, Leo's eyes were on the dry side. Nothing serious. He recommended eye drops, Visine in the morning, and that you buy a humidifier. "And don't forget your sunglasses."

Sunglasses because blue eyes are more sensitive to the glare of the sun than dark eyes.

It's not only the ophthalmologist. Leo maintains annual appointments with a full compendium of physicians: a dermatologist, gastroenterologist, urologist, primary care physician, and although he's never had a cavity in his entire life nor any sign of gum disease, either—he brushes his teeth with a NASA-grade supersonic toothbrush, plus he flosses and uses a Waterpik—he wouldn't dream of blowing off the date with the dentist. Then there are the flu shots, and not just for himself. Come autumn, Leo starts in hounding you, "Addie, did you get your flu shot? Did you get your flu shot?" until you have no choice other than to lie to him. "I got it this morning. You can stop now."

On more than one occasion, you've asked him when he is going to make an appointment with a gynecologist. You've also suggested he see a psychiatrist. But Leo needs a psychiatrist no more than he needs a Pap smear. He's as sane as anyone who isn't mentally ill. This medical checkup religiosity of his has to do only with the dictum: Early detection is the key difference between dying and living, and not merely living but living with all your vital organs intact, living free from pain.

You bought a humidifier, and Leo incorporated Visine into his morning routine, but then one night, one of the angels took on the shape of a bald eagle, which flew from the roof and off into the unknown.

"It must have been the movement of the shadows," you said, and Leo agreed, but soon after the angel-turned-eagle, there came the man on stilts who walked the length of the block before turning the corner and out of view.

You wanted to know if the man on stilts was young or old. Did he have a beard, and what was he wearing? But Leo didn't catch the particulars. "He was moving at a brisk clip," Leo said. "On stilts."

The hallucinations occur only sporadically, one per week, two tops, but Leo has been keeping track of them, dates and times on a sheet of graph paper, and in a small spiral-bound notebook with a green cover, he writes the narrative descriptions in pencil. It's uncharacteristic of him not to document his notes on the computer, and his preference for using pencil and not a pen is equally baffling because of how, over time, pencil fades and how easily it is erased.

Excerpted from Counting Backwards by Binnie Kirshenbaum. Copyright © 2025 by Binnie Kirshenbaum. Excerpted by permission of Soho Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.