I’ve been thinking a lot about John since I met him last Thursday. His friend Cowboy likes to needle him about their situation.
“There’s nothing dignified about dying on a street that smells like piss,” Cowboy was saying with a smile.
“I’m not dying on the street," he said. "This is temporary. This is only temporary.”
John and Cowboy were sitting in my office. My office has no cubicle walls, no door, no secretary. It’s really just a small card table and three folding chairs in front of a “Road Closed” sign propped up against a fence.