The man had thinning hair, but the excitement in his voice was vibrant and boyish. Perhaps he had only recognized Hadley after acknowledging the attractiveness of a stranger. I think Daphne could see that, too, which was why she introduced herself with just a name. I learned later she was the man’s ex-wife, and they had dinner every Friday when he drove out from Dumbo to pick up their teenage sons for the weekend.

As you know, I became acquainted with my wife at a very young age, and while it took me years to actually speak to her, I felt I was intimate with all the details of her life, even the minutiae. Alan must have lived next door before she and I were close, that is⁠—before her father’s death. She had never mentioned him. Or maybe I had forgotten. She certainly had, forgotten I mean, as I could tell it was a surprise for Hadley to find him dining in the same restaurant, still neighbors in a way.

When the maître d’ and a waiter brought over two chairs, Daphne and Alan sat down. A moment later the waitress appeared with our desserts and four spoons. I watched her put them down on the table as though she was dealing a hand of cards.

Only moments before I had cupped my wife’s hands, readying them to hatch in this new world.

4.

Hold on, the corridor outside my hospital room is suddenly busy with footsteps and tall carts. Either someone has died or it’s breakfast. Not sure which is worse, to be honest.

The doctor will come soon to glance over my charts and chat with me. She knows I’m mostly alone. And that it is only a matter of weeks⁠—maybe days.

Maybe today.

Maybe in five minutes.

If it is today, at least we’re together now.

You and me.

You might have guessed what I’m implying with all this⁠—or perhaps you’re in the dark.

Threaded into the story of me telling my wife the news of my illness is a separate narrative, that you may not be enjoying because you find it far-fetched, which would be ironic if I am correct and you are are (partly or entirely) composed of the same energy typing these words here now in this hospital, years before you were (quite possibly) born.

Or perhaps you are animated by the same energy (partly or entirely) that composed my wife? Or (partly or entirely) our son, Adam, or the bully that brought us together⁠—though Adam, or Hadley, or Max, or the bully is not your name now.

You may not have a name.

Is it so ridiculous to think that you could be reading something at this moment that you wrote long ago?

Partly or entirely?