August 11, 2008

“I’ve always wanted to do something crazy,” I said. “Like crazy crazy.”

Brian wasn’t fazed. He was reading The New Yorker. “Like what?”

“Like base jumping. Like going into the jungle and living with the natives. Like flying planes blindfolded.” I thought about it. “Something that people won’t believe when I tell them.”

“That would only work if you don’t die doing these crazy things,” Brian said, eyes still moving across the page of the magazine.

“Oh, who ever dies doing crazy things?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of anyone dying.”

“Lots of people,” he said, finally looking up, finally seeming serious. “More than they want you to know about.”


“Yeah.” Brian smiled. “Your parents.”


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