Jack says, “Pinpoint the moment. Tell it,” but I don’t have the clarity he does which could measure a friend in increments like a Gwyneth Paltrow recipe, totally carb free. Then, what’s left?

“A series of shifts,” I tell him, “the smallest dialogue segment, owning a crease in his face, until he absolute knew who he was, the first time in 50 years.”

But Jack doesn’t get it. Thinks Jesse’s the obvious choice, at my age, star sign, BMI, diabetes probability. I know that he’s right but I couldn’t talk myself into a thing except god which doesn’t make me weak but hopeful.

I’m hopeful, Walt. Hopeful.


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