“Talk into my bullet hole. Tell me I'm fine.”
“Lola?" Cricket is on his knees at the side of my bed. I feel it. "I'm here," he whispers. "You can talk to me or not talk to me, but I'm here.”
“No words for a long time. Which is fine, because even the most important ones-- I love you. I'm sorry. Forgive me? I'm here-- are only stand-ins for what you can say better without talking at all.”
“People are here because they've got baggage. I'm talking curbside-check-in, pay-the-fine-'cause-it's-over-fifty-pounds kind of baggage. Get it?”
“Let me tell you what I just heard. Talk, talk, talk, I. Talk, talk, talk, I. Well, what about me?”