A few weeks later, I ask Rémi the same question.

Why are you here, I say, not statement but question. Accusation, almost.

He dabs his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and he laughs, he laughs his characteristic laugh: a violent expulsion of force and sound, a gunshot full of mirth, a laugh that could be felt, that could not be faked, or reheard or recorded; a real laugh.

Rémi laughs this jumbo laugh and says:

Because no one else is listening.
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