While he’s closeted away there’s concern, because none of us really know what to do if he never comes out of the room or his head, and we confer in the corridor or the bar or outside his room, rather pointlessly. One day in the corridor, Ari and I, not quite friends, are conferring. Up to now we’ve fenced, she warily, me uncertainly. Now, as we exchange vaguenesses about him, there’s a shifting of focus, an infinitesimal jump cut, a scratch, and there we certainly are, both turning to look down the corridor, forty years or more into the future.