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The reality is worse than that. For the past ten years on the same day at the same time every week, Grayson and I have been meeting somewhere in town in his car. Today, our meeting is in a lot on the third floor of the parking garage near the movie complex. He always drives an older-model beige Chevy Impala. I always sit in the back, and he sits up front. He never turns to look at me when I enter the car. I never say goodbye when I leave. Sometimes I have the depressing thought we’ll still be doing the same thing when we’re old men, thirty years from now. But I doubt I’ll live another two. This life I lead isn’t made for longevity. Though that’s what I thought over twenty years ago when I first started out, back when the Grayson in my life was a grizzled old handler named Howard who u
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