DARK KIMBERLY Al says he’s working, but he’s not. The file folders are open on his lap, but he isn’t reading them. He’s staring at his own sock feet propped up on the coffee table. And stroking his bottom lip with a thumb. My fingers click over the keys of his laptop. He’s given me a list of media outlets to email with his latest press release. One by one, he says, with their name at the top. Gets better results when they think it’s personal. I’m emailing folks at CNN, MSNBC, the networks, local and regional affiliates. Big league stuff. My attention is divided. He hasn’t moved in about half an hour. “Are you all right?” I ask. He stirs. “It was sweet of you to come and play with the little girl.” “Tina? I just thought probably no one makes a point of visiting her. So I did.” “You’re very thoughtful.” His smile reaches across the short space between us. “She has no one to play with now. She looked up to him so much. She was always going, ‘Tariq does this,’ and ‘Tariq says…’ whatever it might be.”
