Young Hemingway was surprised by her response, and he could see by the change in her expression that she really did mean it. He'd never thought of himself as depending on anyone else. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea.
And then there was a little boy questioning whether he was his papa, and there was an older version of him looking at him like an terrifying reflection. "Holy hell..." young Hem breathed, holding onto the edge of the table to steady himself.
"Uh- yeah, yes, that's right. Hello, old friend. Are you okay?" Hemingway asked of his younger self, trying to use a calm, steady tone. He knew it had to be a thousand times more disturbing for his younger self.
"I- I-" Young Hem stuttered. "I- think I might be sick-"