Kale and I are parked on a gravel road, sitting in his car, enjoying a cigarette. When and where are irrelevant. We're leaning back admiring the stars through our open windows. There is a 12-pack between us. It was a good talk. I tell Kale, "I do want to be a writer someday. I want to tell your story." Without looking away from the night sky, he replies, "Do it. You gonna tell the truth?" "Yeah." "How much truth?" he asks.
