I watched him absorb it.

For eleven years his identity had been anchored to steady hands in a bright operating room.

To hear that he might have to build something different was a loss he could neither hurry nor dismiss.

In the parking lot he stayed inside the car after I started the engine.

“I don’t know who I am if I can’t do the thing I’m best at,” he said.

“You’re the man Sadie asks to tell the same terrible joke every night,” I replied.