He makes me sit there, as it’s nearing 5 a.m. in Kiev, and write. He’s not here. He’ll be on a plane to New York soon. But his hand is on my shoulder, and I’m writing.
“I threw your army tags into the water. A thousand years later, archeologists will dig that shit right up, and they’ll wonder about it. A remark will be made in an interview. A young, ambitious sort of writer will get a hold of the interview while checking the news on a night she can’t sleep (people will still have insomnia a thousand years later, how else will they get their best ideas?), and end up writing a novel about the identity of the man whose name is on the tags. It will be all wrong. But epic.”