When I give up, we’ll leave the country and move someplace warm where we only know a few words of the language to get by. I’ll name myself something ironic, and by then it will suit me. I’ll stop wearing shoes. I’ll start drinking again; I’ll drink like I never did, maybe tequila. I’ll sleep till my bones beg to be moved. I’ll take up the PlayStation. It might not feel like failure once you stop wanting it. There will be water close by, and I’ll throw stones into the water and watch them sink. It will feel good. That will be my day: sleeping in, drinking from the bottle, playing a good shooter, throwing a few stones.