"You still have time. Draw one line. I'll be there."

The balloon says: "You made me. You made me and you left me in a folder called 'old shit.'"

Page one: Kirtu stands on a rooftop you recognize. Your rooftop. The one outside your childhood bedroom window. The fire escape has the same rust stain shaped like Uruguay. The water tower has the same dent from when your drunk neighbor threw a chair.

The balloon is full now. Overflowing. Letters spilling down the margin like a scream.

Then the file opens.

No, not blank. White. White like fresh paper. White like the first page of a sketchbook you never opened.

You draw one line.

Kirtu is older now. Older than you. Gray at the temples. Standing in a room full of filing cabinets. Each drawer is labeled with a year. 2012. 2013. 2014. He's pulling out a folder marked "Projected Self."