No, Wendell, we won’t.
I call Skip in the morning and tell him I can’t come in. He says, “What are you saying, Sweeney, today or ever?” Still time to change my mind. I hear the kitchen in the pause, the bang of a pan in low-level static like holding a seashell to your ear.
“I’m saying ever.”
“Good man, Sweeney. Thanks a lot. Fuck you.” He slams down the phone.
Later I take a doxycycline, a shower, an aimless drive.