“We’ll talk about it on Friday,” he says, with a repressive eyebrow. “It isn’t certain that we’re ‘gonna’ anything, young Coffey, so don’t start imagining it.” “Dude.” I shake my head—then stop. I feel better, but not that much better. I drink more coffee and then start my sentence over. “Dude, I’ve been imagining ‘gonna’ for, like, two years almost. That ship has sailed.”