“Where were you when I was burned and I was broken?” he asked, and lit a match off the candle on the table, and his cigarette off of that.

“Home, home again,” I replied, dully. He was tedious, self-important. I wanted this over quickly, but we were well past that. He’d spent nine minutes ordering a drink and ended up getting water.

“Is there anybody out there?” He shook the match out and took a long draw on the cigarette. It was a thin brown thing, probably a cheap off-brand trying to look European.

I sighed. The small talk was killing me, but there was no rushing him. “Daddy’s flown across the ocean,” I said. As much as he hated my old man, I figured this might throw him.

It did. “The path you tread is narrow, and the drop is sheer and very high,” he intoned ominously, like I cared.

“Fuck all that, we’ve got to get on with these,” I replied, setting the attaché in front of me.

He looked at it for several seconds, puffing his cheap cigarette.

“I want to tell you a story,” he finally said.