Scrib’s phone rang and cut through our conversation about what escapades he had gotten himself into over the weekend. He looked down at his phone, then at me. “Jim,” he said, almost sarcastically. I smirked and nodded, urging him to answer without saying anything. Jim was Scrib’s old bandmate. They loved each other, but the dynamic had always been cockeyed—Scrib never felt accepted by Jim and it was clear Jim resented Scrib for leaving the band abruptly and moving to NYC. My relationship with Jim? Tumultuous at best, but I cared for him deeply. Scrib answered the phone and slinked into another room. I couldn’t help but hear him ask Jim to elaborate on health issues he was having and my heart sunk.