I found myself alone with Douglas again.
Morning light filled the room.
It made everything less frightening.
The machines were still there.
The illness was still there.
The forty-one missing years were still there.
But so was he.
“Tell me something good,” I said.
Douglas thought.
“Lucas was terrified of ducks until he was nine.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“A duck stole his sandwich.”
“I was expecting trauma. That’s just good judgment.”
“He still doesn’t trust them.”
“Understandable.”
“Your turn.”
I thought.
“I learned to drive a motorcycle at forty-seven.”
His eyes widened.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“You hated motorcycles.”
“I hated your motorcycle.”
“My motorcycle was excellent.”
“Your motorcycle had to be pushed downhill before it would start.”
“It had personality.”
“It had tetanus.”
For ten minutes, we traded pieces of our lives.
He told me about becoming an architect.
I told him about teaching high school literature for twenty-eight years.
