Two young men sat on a chilly Ottawa night, parked on the street after a tense meeting. A prickly debate had simmered, a trivial thing really, philosophical at best, the nature and manner of setting goals.

The senior of the two felt compelled to press the issue, “I want you do something for me.” His serious tone defied his young age, not even old enough to drink.

“Sure,” came the surly reply.

“Try to open the glove box.” The request was drippingly sanguine and full of unnecessary import. As the younger of the two reached forward a chiding correction came, “No, no. Don’t open it. Try to open it.”

Eyes rolling, the younger flopped back into the passenger seat. He hadn’t realized he was paired with Yoda, or worse, a Yoda wannabe. Eyes, lonely despite the company, scanned the skyline out the window, attempting to will the familiar mountains of his home into its place.

With a resolute smirk, he rejoined the debate, “How about,” again reaching for the glove box, “you try to stop me.”