Assert yourself.

‘Yeah, look, I understand you’re sad and all, but to be honest …’ I said, my voice almost inaudible, as he leaned in to me to hear, tugging his earlobe to help, ‘I’m sorry he’s dead, and all, but we didn’t speak, much …’ I offered, trying to snap this stranger out of his melancholic regret. I thought of my mother’s text. She would be very ashamed if I was cruel to a dead man’s brother. ‘I’m so sorry he died, it’s so sad, but maybe it’s a relief?’ His crying began to anger me. ‘Oh, fuck knows,’ I went on, annoyed. ‘But it’s no way, it’s no way to live, the way your brother was living.’

He looked wounded. ‘Yeah, I know, oh, here, I know I should have tried, you know, I just … left it. We just, we disconnected. Like I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person … like … you know?’

‘Ah, look, Stephen, no, course I don’t, besides, roads are deadly, not your fault …’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah, yeah, suppose you’re right,’ Stephen muttered. ‘They really are.’ He looked thankful as he began to play with his hands. ‘She never wanted him to have the bike, you know?’ he sighed. ‘But he always got his own way.’ He turned and looked squarely at me. ‘What happened you?’

‘Nothing … just sick,’ I said, defensively.

He eyed the picture of Santa’s grotto.

‘Got kids?’

‘Those? No, I stole them for the Christmas card.’

‘Shit, shit. Yeah, sorry, stupid question. Shit. I’m just awkward in these …’ Stephen laughed quietly, and then made an odd kind of chapel out of his hands. ‘Aw, fuck, they must miss you, poor guys, and you holed up in here?’ He stared at me, my heart pounded and my mouth filled with water. He was so good at holding a gaze that it made me queasy. ‘Shane left you a note, a note thing for you, on his machine,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘What? You sure?’

‘Uh-oh, hmmm …’

‘For me?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure it’s yours, he wanted you to have it …’ he said, lifting a MacBook Air from the bag. ‘I mean he was quite clear,’ Stephen said. ‘He typed his requests.’

‘He did?’

‘Oh, yeah, of course,’ Stephen said, noticing my uncertainty. ‘His hands were fine – quadriplegia, but some nerves had rerouted, imagine, nerves can do that. Isn’t it amazing? I think, or somewhere in that region, L something, T something, oh, I dunno, to be honest I’m not really sure of the mechanics of it, or the numbers, Ma knows all that info, but I …’ He wavered, sighing, discontinuing his own banter. ‘I didn’t really listen to … details.’

Stephen was growing impatient like a dog at the front door waiting by their leash. He raised an eyebrow to move along the business.

‘You really sure it was me?’ I said, spelling out my name slowly, S-I-N-E-fada-A-D-H-Y-N-E-S.

‘Yes. Sure.’ Stephen pointed to the machine. Eleven Inch.