Miles and miles away, feeling the impression of a touch, Louis closes his eyes. The ache of missing Daniel stirs in his head, rising like silt, coloring the connection between them without fully coalescing into words.

Alongside that, a pleased glow over Our book.

It is complicated, Daniel's choice to publish. Louis' last minute reversal, hasty burst of fire seeking to claw back his story, come to nothing.

They haven't talked about it. What can be said?

But even with all of this, Louis still likes the sound of our book. Likes the way it sounds in Daniel's mouth, in their heads.

And he likes this too, this shared unraveling. Louis considers, offers, I can imagine there are those of us old enough to have gotten a hand into publishing. I don't know why they'd have paid attention to your memoir though.

Daniel hadn't remembered to write down the truth of San Francisco. Louis and Armand had made no claims, no shouts out into the many.

How will you find out for certain? About the memoir?