“Are you Gregory in the story?” Jason asks.
Max shakes his head. “I can’t be Gregory when I’m me.”
“You could be two people at the same time.”
“I know. But not this time. I’m not the man in the red bathing suit.”
Jason looks down at his notes, raises his head. “Do you see Gregory in your apartment?”
Max scratches his left cheek, tilts his head upwards, and takes in the ceiling: swirls of white paint and one jagged crack from the building shifting during a recent and minor earthquake, common to the Erie/Redder area. “Sometimes. Mostly in the morning. Just after dawn. I’ve never seen him in the evening.”
“Tell me who you think Gregory is in your life, Max.”
Max doesn’t understand this question. He pauses, which is long, irreversible. “I think he’s Jackson Meed.”
“One of your previous
