‘Me and Sash,’ Colt says, ‘we just want you to be happy.’ He stubs his cigarette into the sawn up remains of his steak and sighs in a paternal way that hits just shy of condescension. ‘I’m not your father,’ he says, reading my face. ‘Do whatever you want.’ I don’t know what I want. It’s a problem, it’s the problem. I try explaining this between beers, using more words than I needed and finding less meaning than I wanted, stop-starting so many times that he offers to wind me up. I tell him my gears are broken.

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