He is eighteen. And life and law think that is old enough.

Con men have to see the same face in the mirror every morning. (Isn't that self-defeating?) One day aloud he says to Mozzie, we don't get to be imposters, not when it counts, if when it counts is always.

The laughter at parties is like wine. It's the feeling to chase, if he had to choose. Find the conversation, find the mark, find the lady.

The tone makes the words and the clothes make the man and maybe that's how he ended up here, in a borrowed suit, listening to the sound of other people's happiness.

Skin against skin is real, and the crash of city sound, and how fear feels the same no matter where it comes from.

Those are the only things he can count on.

Eighteen. Old enough.

He hasn't been an imposter for long.