If it is him, though, I’m ready to rip him a new asshole. I’ve given a lot of speeches in the day-and-a-half I’ve been here, mostly to the wall above my cot. Most of them are about how I am never going to forgive him. They’re pretty convincing, if I do say so myself.
But somewhere between the third checkpoint and the fourth, a door in my head that I’ve been holding shut with both hands swings open, and out pours every selfish wish I’ve been pretending not to make.
Please be him. Please be him. Please, please, please be him.
I’ll forgive you anything if you came.
Just be on the other side of that door.
Collins keys us into a short, narrow corridor I’ve never seen, with doors set on both sides at uneven intervals, like a hotel that has been added onto a few too many times.
Some of the
