“You think the girl was Emily?”
“Probably.”
She embraced me again, and didn’t let go. “You loved her.”
“Yeah I did.” My eyes were far away.
“You did all this cause you loved her. And now it’s finished.” The wind whistled. She
said “I love you.”
“No.” I breathed. She pulled back so she could see my face.
“What?”
“No, it’s not finished.” My face was a mask. “Tug pulled the trigger on Em and he got
the fall, but the bulls coulda found that out without me.” She pulled back more. “I set out to
know who put her in the spot, who put her in front of the gun. That was you, angel.”
She was drifting back further. “What are you talking about?”
“It was you. What, you want the whole tale? You want me to tell it to you?”
“Tell it to me.” She looked bewildered.

I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to move on when the one you love walks away from you. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.

Neil Gaiman

“swimming is a big thing that earthlings do according to home movies”