Long ago I had learned that those middle-of-the-night thoughts didn’t always hold up to the light of day. There were times, in my advertising life, when I had jumped out of bed with a campaign idea I thought so brilliant I had to write it down. I kept a notepad next to my bed for that very purpose. I would jump up and scribble down my flash of genius, then go back to bed, only to wake the next morning, read the words, and wonder, What was I thinking?

But this time, that wasn’t the case. Everything Leszek had said was true. I owned no stock in Kyle’s life and I had no desire to vest him with stock in mine. I retrieved my cell phone from my pack, then, as I considered what I was about to do, hesitated. What would I say? How much would I say? In a way, it didn’t matter. It was the act itself. The less I said the better. I would call and say, I forgive you. Just those three words. I thought about Pamela. That’s what she had come so far to hear. What she had risked her life to hear. But Kyle wasn’t, as far as I could tell, seeking what Pamela had. Again, I reminded myself of Leszek’s words. It didn’t matter. What I was doing had nearly nothing to do with Kyle. How he responded to my forgiveness was up to him. Even if he met my call with hostility, it didn’t matter.

Then I remembered that Leszek had said I should first go to God. Surprisingly, calling out to God was harder to me than calling Kyle. What would I say to God? Of course, if God was God, then whatever I said was moot, as he already knew what I would say. I couldn’t plan what I was going to say like some kind of presentation, every word carefully scripted, timed for impact. Speaking to God was not about show.

I had once been present at a fund-raising dinner for a Washington State congressional candidate. A minister had gotten up to say a prayer but instead had read a poem. I remember thinking it was a nice presentation, but that it was no more sincere than my last advertising jingle. Maybe it was my father’s utter lack of pretense, but I had been taught to say what I meant and get to the point. It made sense to me that I should speak to God in the same way. Keep it simple. I looked up at the ceiling, then said aloud, “God, I forgive Kyle.”

Nothing. I felt nothing. I felt worse than nothing, I felt like a liar. I still wanted to beat Kyle to a pulp. I wanted to beat him and leave him on the side of the road like the gang in Spokane had done to me.