—Will you smile… if I admit I was wrong?

—About what?

—Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring, like oxygen turning into gold. I’ve longed to witness such an event, and yet I neglect that in human coupling, millions upon millions of cells compete to create life, for generation after generation until, finally, your mother loves a man, Edward Blake, the Comedian, a man she has every reason to hate, and out of that contradiction, against unfathomable odds, it’s you — only you — that emerged. To distill so specific a form, from all that chaos. It’s like turning air into gold. A miracle. And so… I was wrong. Now dry your eyes. And let’s go home.