I hear voices in my head, and have for as long as I can remember. I don’t know if that’s part of the necessary equipment for being a writer or not; I’ve never asked another one. I never felt the need to, because I know all the voices I hear are versions of me. Still, they often seem like very real versions of other people, and none is more real to me—or more familiar—than Jo’s voice. Now that voice came, sounding interested, amused in an ironic but gentle way . . . and approving. Going to fight, Mike? “Yeah,” I said, standing there in the dark and picking out gleams of chrome with my
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