I WAS TOLD TO MEET HIM AT THE DINER. I was nineteen, barely out of high school and didn’t have a clue to what I was doing. All I knew was that I needed help. I was told he could help. He was a friend of my father’s. Froehmer. I’d known him most of my life. Growing up, he’d come around the house to see my father all the time, but I hadn’t seen him in years. I wasn’t sure I would even know him now. I had enough other shit on my mind. My father arranged the meeting and told me to wait for him. So I waited. And waited. I’d ordered some soup and thirty-five minutes later it was cold and I was still waiting. I’d never waited thirty minutes for anything, never in my life. The waitress came and took away the soup and then came back and took my money. I still waited. Then my phone rang.

“Where are you?” Froehmer said.

“I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“I’m at the fucking diner. Where the fuck are you?”

“I’ve been waiting right here.”

“Where? Never mind, I see you.”

I put the phone back in my pocket and a guy almost three times my age moved toward me with a cup of coffee in one hand and his other hand clenched in a fist I half-thought he might throw any second. I stood up and put out my hand, but he ignored me and slid into the booth on the other side. I didn’t recognize him at all. It had been too long, long enough for him to get old. I had a younger man in my head, in good shape, somebody who’d played a sport in college, lacrosse probably, squash, one of those club sports that don’t count for anything, I thought. He looked like that kind of guy to me, back in the day. Now he was gray, sagging a bit here and there. I saw the younger version of him in the folds and wrinkles, but it took me a minute.

“You forget who I am?” Froehmer said.

“No.”

“You should have found me. Not the other way around.”

“I didn’t see you, I guess. I was here at eleven, just like you said.”

“I’ve been here thirty years,” he said, “waiting on guys just like you. Only I don’t wait. Usually.”

I took a sip of water, even though the glass was empty.

“You should order something,” he said. “How’s your dad?”

“Trying to stay positive.”

“What’s he have to do now, three times a week?”

I nodded. “Three times a week. And that’s the way it’s going to be, I guess.”

“Good doctors?”

“Real good.”

“Your dad’s a good man,” he said.

“He says the very same about you.”