Paul took a deep breath. He really sucked it in, as though the room might run out of air. And then he began slowly to speak. He chose his words with care. 'When you're my age,' he said, 'you know what you can trust, and you know what you can't trust. I know I can trust my feelings.'
He looked up at Jeremiah and continued, 'My gut feelings, you understand? And I know I can't trust some stranger who shows up at my door, unannounced, and asks me questions about things that happened sixty years ago. About things that maybe didn't even happen sixty years ago! Who knows! I don't know! You remember sixty years ago? Of course not, you weren't even born! Weren't even a single cell. And yet you have the nerve—' Paul began to shake but managed to regain control. 'The nerve. To enter my house. And ask me—me of all people!—about the one man whose name I never want to hear again. No—I'll say it one more time. Just so you'll be satisfied. Just for your pleasure. One more time: Sweet Lou. That's it. That's the last you'll hear from me! No more!'
