I’m on I-490, heading southeast out of Rochester. Mike’s relaxing in the passenger seat, one leg propped up on the dash.
“You and I on a mission together,” he says. “It’s sort of like the old days.”
“In the old days, I didn’t have a license,” I say.
“It’s hard to believe you were only twelve when I met you.”
“Is this why you wanted us to meet in Rochester?” I say. “So we could reminisce?”
Mike nods. “I wanted to remind you of where we began. And how far we’ve come.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Mike laughs. Then he sits up straight in his seat, and his voice grows serious.
“Do you remember your first week in the training house?” Mike asks.
My thoughts drift back to that time. The memories are painful, clouded in darkness.
“I don’t think much about it,” I say.
“I don’t believe you,” Mike says.