All the guys at the bar, Jimmy, all the girls, they don’t show up at your wake. Not because they don’t like you, but because they never knew your last name. A month later, someone tells them, “Oh, Jimmy died.” “Jimmy who?” “Jimmy the cop.” “Oh,” they say, “him.” And all the people on the job, all the people you spent all those hours in the radio car with, the guys with their feet up on their desk, telling stories, who shorted you on the food runs, who signed your overtime slips. In the end, they’re not gonna be there either. Family, that’s it. Family, and if you’re lucky, one or two friends who are the same as family. That’s all the best of us get. Everything else is just…