Then I cross that out and replace it with: I play guitar.

But that isn’t right either.

I’m not James. No one is writing about me in newspapers or buying tickets to hear me play.

Does it count if you make something that might possibly be called art, but no one hears it?

I cross out I play guitar and write I love music. No one can argue with that.

It’s stifling hot as James and I walk through Central Park, even though we’ve waited until almost sundown to come out; all so he can check out Belvedere Castle for use as a future performance area. The castle isn’t really a castle. James calls it a “folly,” and it’s more like multiple flights of stairs that ascend to a turret that has just reopened after a massive renovation.

As we approach, James surprises me by running up the stairs and sticking his head out of the window, shaking his hair like Rapunzel. I miss seeing him this way. Light and happy. It doesn’t seem to happen much anymore.

He runs back to ground level and grabs a handful of what Connor and I call helicopter seeds, but which James says are actually called samaras, and takes them back to the top of the turret. Then he instructs me to stand underneath while he drops them down around me, the seeds swirling and spinning like dancers.

Is this helping you decide about whether to stage a show here? I call up to him.

He laughs. Starts to answer. Then stops. The shower of helicopters stops as well, and I look up to see what has him distracted.

You should come up here, he calls down soberly.

Seriously? There’s like, a hundred steps in this thing.

Still, because it’s James and because I’m curious, I haul myself up the stairs and look in the direction he’s pointing. Hundreds and hundreds of people are making their way through the park carrying signs with numbers on them. A somber parade.

I don’t get it, I say.

It’s a memorial, James explains and then falls silent.

I squint and can barely make out the migration of people, some in wheelchairs, some leaning on arms, making their way across the park. Then I don’t have to ask what the memorial is for. If we were trying to hide from this thing, we were fooling ourselves. It’s going to keep going until it’s found us.

What are the numbers on the signs? I ask, not expecting James to have an answer. My heart is suddenly beating too hard, and I can’t blame the heat.

One for each of the dead, James says in a monotone. I forgot this was today.

We watch with a strange sense of sadness and fascination. Then James turns to face me, says, The guy on that 20/20 interview you saw, died four days after it aired. He’s one of the people this is for. He wanted everyone in New York to know what’s going on.