[...] I hesitantly asked Nelson if he wouldn’t wear his kepi when he was out in the sun. He owned one, I knew. He was normally out in the noonday sun bareheaded, except in the depths of summer. He looked at me. The back of your neck worries me, I said. It looked cured. You probably don’t wear the thing so you can avoid looking like the French Foreign Legion, subconsciously, I said. But please wear it. He still hesitated. I want you to last forever, I said, and then my eyes filled up. Chronologically he was closer to death than I was, and the thought was unbearable for a minute. It was not the last time this would happen. He was immediately good about the kepi.