Sitting here in this clean office, his books arranged neatly on their shelves, his computer humming on his desk, his phone flashing with messages, he tells me about free will. I look around the white walls, stare at the poster of blue and black Alaska. Iâ€™ve never been to Alaska. Maybe I should go. He coughs quietly. I look at him, his grey eyes staring at me. Well? he asks.
Free will? I say. I used to believe in free will. The priests would tell us that free will was a gift from god. But I was baptized into the faith before I was cognizant of my feet, I never chose to join.
You donâ€™t believe in free will? he asks.
I think of the girl in that basement, raped and strangled before she was old enough to bleed. I think of that mad Ranger, beating the windows out with his fists before he was old enough to drink. I think of the men and women, walking barefooted and hungry through the richest city in America before they were old enough to die.
No, I say. I never asked to be born here. And isnâ€™t that the meaning of free will?
He looks at his watch. Timeâ€™s up, he says. Will I see you next week?