Last week was harsh.
The heat (flaunting the ability to vault over 100 degrees), another brutal biopsy and Chris leaving for the north west.

Chris missed his departure deadline last Sunday, he'd fallen behind rebuilding the BMW. Time had compressed for him and my intended time with him was threatened. I drove over to the garage.

I caught him referring to the motorcycle manual and expressed surprise: I thought you had been born with the blue prints to everything in your head!

The garage was a blistering environment with a tin roof, filtered and hesitant light and a fan that rattled and coughed the heat of hell at us. The air took on weight. Taking it in was an effort, as though it was wrapped inside layers of wet wool. The heat was like standing inside of dense fact.

I hung around for two hours. 105 degrees. I edged towards the garage door desperate for a breeze, glanced down and saw a cat print in the cement.

Look Chris, I said, pointing the print and showing off that I could see through sweat.

We stood shoulder to shoulder for a few moments staring at the paw print.

Chris is the best human being I've ever known.

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