I did not hide in the coat closet. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t fit, too small and too many other coats. You tiptoed into the foyer—already freaked out, scared to be in the funeral home by yourself—and I called out my offer of a ride, and maybe, yeah, I called out too loudly. You jumped out of your skin, nearly levitating. But there was no ventriloquism—no thanks, those dummies are freaky—and no me creeping out of the closet to scare you. You did a good enough job scaring yourself.

Who is the imagined audience for this book, by the way? Nonfiction writers need to be able to answer that question. Is this a story about overcoming or succumbing?

Based on the date you give on the first page and in a section in this chapter, I assume you started writing this in 2007. Then, later, your 2012-voice and 2017-voice interjections are quite different tonally. The present-day 2017-you commentary is concerning.

I am not a path. I am your friend.

I loved that old Datsun. I miss making tapes too. Streaming playlists are not the same. I want a physical artifact in my hands. Yes, I am an old person.

I don’t remember ever joking/saying I took photos because I was hunting for mysterious evidence. I don’t mean this to be a fact-checking, refutative read, but this is supposed to be nonfiction after all.

Rereading our exchange in the car I think you wanted to work in a reference to UFOs so you could name the chapter the way you did. I only now notice the chapters are named after Hüsker Dü songs. Awwww. It’s endearing, and also, given you’re pushing fifty years old, maybe a wee bit pathetic. “Pathetic” isn’t the right word—it’s too strong—but I’m using it. And no shame meant toward you, or solely you. I don’t know how else to describe a level of fandom in which one attaches a sizable measure of value, pride, and self-worth via the act of being a fan. I am not excluding myself from this. I still wear my old green jacket with band pins and patches. If I were to title this part of my commentary like your chapters, I’d call it “Dead Set on Destruction,” so I could be the Grant Hart to your Bob Mould, because as we flail into the decaying teeth of the twenty-first century, most of us communicate our neuroses, narcissisms, and tribalisms via T-shirt alliances, Instagram tags, and “well actually” subtweets. I don’t know why I’m being so judgy. Maybe I see too much of myself in you, and when I see it, I want to invalidate it because it makes me sad, and I don’t know exactly why.