November 21

            “I don’t know if we can do it.”

            The voice sounds like a whisper from far away.    

            “We need to.”

            A couple talking. 

            “There’s a lot to think about.”

            Serious and somber. 

            “We have no choice.”

            Distance. 

            “Maybe. We should talk to somebody.”

            Doubt. 

            “I’m sick of talking to people.”

            Disdain. 

            “But what about–”

            And then the conversation goes silent. Like my wire tap has been discovered and turned off. 

            This has something to do with Bob Costas and Michigan but I don’t know what. I feel like I’m having a dream.       

            No. It’s more like I feel like I’m bound and gagged in the back trunk of a car. I feel the soft tremble of the tires on the highway. 

            Am I going to Grand Rapids or coming back to Appleton? 

            I have no idea what’s supposed to happen and what I’m supposed to do next. 

            What would Costas do? 

            My neck stiff and unmoving, my eyes open and see nothing but white–endless white wide open white for a brief second–until something shuts back down into the black. 

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