Before his accident, he’d called to ask if I’d go drinking with him. I told him, No, not tonight. I’d started writing again.
Wow, he said. That’s cool!
I guess, I said.
We both listened a little longer on the phone.
I would tell myself—in the months to come—that besides the lateness of the call, I’d had no reason to suspect anything might be wrong. I would tell myself that he’d always been fine, alone. I would tell myself all kinds of things before I could, finally, imagine us talking.
Alright then, he said, getting ready to go. Write something good and tell everyone you’re my friend.