[ Mark had lived a lucky life, too. His biggest worries had been mostly trivial and silly, too. He'd played sports, was active, wasn't immune to cuts and bruises and scraped knees. It's really just within the past year that his hands are callused, that he's had to do so much more with them — things he was hoping to do; a whole lot more he was not.

He squeezes back. ]

That's what I keep telling myself. That the dad I loved wasn't a lie. I remember him, he was real. It's just so hard to reconcile now. And I don't know... was he ever scared? I want to— I want to be okay, I want to know that if I slip up it won't be that bad, I want to—

[ He stops himself. Pauses. ]