But I want to tell you what I’ve learned about records, since I spent a year and thirty-two thousand dollars on one.

A record is just a sentence somebody typed. It can be typed in fourteen hours by a person who doesn’t know your name, and it can follow you into every room you’ll ever try to enter, and getting it changed is slow and boring and costs more than it should.

And then there’s the other kind. The kind a child writes in blue marker on the inside of a shirt hem where nobody will see it, because he isn’t writing it for anybody.

That one can’t be amended. Nobody can call a screening company and revise it. It just sits there, being true, waiting for the day somebody thinks to turn the fabric inside out.

I’ve stopped trying to decide which kind matters more. They both hang on the same wall now, about six inches apart, and on a clear morning the light from the window at the end of the hall comes down and hits the gold first.

End of Part Two.