Now we’re even.
Bobby and I stood in the street and discussed independence and luck, and every once in a while I nudged him back from his many appointments with Jeep-borne death. He held up his end of the conversation for a decent stretch, but soon his gibberish became too gibbery for me. Or maybe my mood had changed. At one point he sang, “I wish! I wish! I wish I were a fish!” and laughed his head off.
That was it for me. I went home. Didn’t want to be there when it happened.