I doze off and find myself worrying that if the only two figures left in the world across from him were a boy chanting Nazi songs and his leftist sister, the bridge between him and me might feel longer, harder to cross than the distance between two men on opposite sides of conviction. That the familiarity of male bodies and male voices could feel more intelligible than the questioning presence of a sister, whose caution and emotion might read to him as foreign, hysterical, or even obstructive.