He was not doing anything.

He was just a man in his garage on a Friday evening, getting his tackle in order for a trip, with no idea a camera was catching him, no idea it mattered, no idea it was the second-to-last day of his life.

That is the detail I could not get past, watching him hum and reach for a reel.

He did not know.

That is the mercy and the horror of all our ordinary days — we move through the second-to-last one exactly as we move through any other, unhurried, half paying attention, saving the big feelings for occasions that we assume are still coming.