“Me and your grandmother. Your mother. My time in prison. The war.” He turned from the window. In his eyes, through the haze of hydromorphone, I saw a flash of something I took, based on the historical record, for anger. “You think it explains you.” “It explains a lot,” I said. “It explains nothing.” “It explains a little.” “It’s just names and dates and places.” “Okay.” “It doesn’t add up to anything, take my word for it. It doesn’t mean anything.” “I get it,” I said. “Oh, you get it? What do you get?” “I get that you’re a big ol’ fuckin’ nihilist.”
