I promised Lynn and his mom I’d keep talking to him. I don’t feel strange about that. I don’t even feel strange about the voices in my head. You can call me crazy. And you’d be right. And no one more than John Goham would appreciate the notion that you think I’m crazy. His prayer card rests at my side. It leans against the spines of a stack of books I keep on a table next to my easy chair. I look at his picture and remember the time when, as a kid, John stood up too fast and