Will Phillips is a storyteller. The irony, perhaps, is the idea that becomes apparent as the broader story of Adjustments unfolds, along with its many smaller stories, that Will’s whole way of being in the world is a long practice of not telling a story. The toll that such a practice can take on a human is nuanced, but undeniable.

His friendship with Joe is a gradual teasing out of that story, a great kindness. The story may not turn out to be the one some readers may expect, but it offers a gateway to tell our truer stories, all the same, over time.

Will jumped in his chair and looked at Joe.

Joe felt his own face and wore an expression of mock horror. “Am I a ghost? Am I really here?”

“Cut it out.” Will looked into his coffee.

“Easy there.” Joe chuckled. “Somebody was a little lost in his thoughts.”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“So, is it true? Are you afraid of a little story?”

“Not of a little story, no.”

“Perhaps you should be.”

“I should?”

“Sure. Many a man has been undone by a little story.” Joe sipped from his cup.

“So then, all the more reason not to tell it.”

“Oh, I don’t think I said anything of the kind. The thing people don’t always want to realize is that stories have great power whether they get told or not. Those men I mentioned? I was thinking they were brought to ruin by their failure to tell the story. People do fret so much about the stories like the monster that ate New York City. But they forget it’s possible for a man to be eaten alive from the inside out.”

“Yeah, yeah. Turn the spotlight on old Will’s demons, Joe. The oh-so-scary monsters within.”

“I need remind you of nothing at all. You are fully aware of your own man-eating monster. Or monsters. All day long. You just find it convenient to blame me for bringing it up. And if that helps you get to the point of telling the story, then sure. I’m happy to keep letting you play target practice with my head.” Joe wadded up his napkin and balanced it on the top of his head with a mischievous grin.