That’s not you.

Go and get it and we’ll look.”

Which is, word for word, allowing for the object, a sentence my father said to me in a garage in Wilmington in 1993.

I did not know it was in there.

That is the thing I want to record.

I had spent two years and about ninety sessions and roughly eleven thousand dollars learning to be a father deliberately, on purpose, out of theory, and in the one moment that arrived without warning what came out was a dead man’s sentence in a dead man’s cadence, and it was the right one.

We looked.