Mr. Hitchcock liked Bosco, so Marion Crane died from Bosco loss. Ms. Crane suffered this loss because weeks later on a sound stage miles away Mr. Hitchcock said, “Casaba,” and casaba melons were stabbed repeatedly. It follows then that Ms. Crane could have, at any point before her death, opened her veins with a knife or razor and drained them into a glass of milk and stirred and drank the milk. And it also follows that had Ms. Crane known about the sweetness in her veins, and had she so chosen, she could have been a closed loop, a self-sustaining circuit, by simply opening her veins and drinking of herself; but when the melons were stabbed and the Bosco was not redirected into Ms. Crane’s mouth but instead allowed to mix with the water and pass down the drain, Ms. Crane also passed (though you must wonder if Norman Bates did not mix himself a beverage before he bagged Ms. Crane’s body and set it in the trunk of the car and rolled it into the swamp—he must have, at the very least, licked her spilled syrup from his fingers, accompanied by the succulent pop… pop… pop… as each finger left his lips). And now consider: perhaps this is how you will die. Perhaps someone far off, in a different time, a different place, will stab or shoot or pummel some piece of fruit. Perhaps a strawberry crushed beneath a foot and your heart explodes in your chest. Or a forgotten apple going rotten in a refrigerator drawer and the rot of dementia in your brain. Perhaps an insect burrowing into a fallen cherry and a Lyme-diseased tick burrows into you. Or perhaps a food fight or even just an enthusiastic meal, and you and hundreds of others are caught up in a hurricane, flung against walls, impaled on tine-like gates. And, perhaps, on the day of your funeral while you lay cold in the casket, your family, too grief-stricken to cook, will hire caterers who will melt chocolate and in it dip strawberries, apples, cherries, melons.