He was a man who had spent years being told his own perceptions were wrong, finally holding, in his hand, proof that they had been right all along.

I gave him that.

It is a strange thing to be grateful for, but I am.

In his last hours he got to stop doubting himself.

The recording was not a weapon.

It was, for him, a kind of peace.

Chapter 11 — Cinnamon Apples

I spent that night in the armchair by his bed.