“I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all. I had been worried about Al trashing a bar. What if he showed up here amid Cincy’s finest citizens and its most helpless orphans? I’d be lynched.”

“Maybe I was supposed to hate Caroline Mathers or something because she’d been with Augustus, but I didn’t. I couldn’t see her very clearly amid all the tributes, but there didn’t seem to be much to hate. She seemed to be mostly a professional sick person, like me, which made me worry that when I died they’d have nothing to say about me except that I fought heroically, as if the only thing I’d ever done was Have Cancer.”

“You were worried about me?” “Of course I was, buddy. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened. You didn’t think I’d be worried about you?” “No. I didn’t think you cared.” Dad looks sad. And surprised. I’m not sure why. “Really, buddy? You didn’t think I cared?” “No.” “Well, I do. A lot.” “Okay.” “I guess I need to do a better job of showing you.” “Yes. You could do a better job.” Dad laughs. And he hugs me again.”

“So if I said I didn’t like the whole sucking thing at all… ” “I’d say based on the enthusiasm you showed by practically taking the skin off my cock you’re full of shit.”

“I’ll bet Ryan Lilly drinks coffee like a flower—a lily. I drink coffee more like two roses and a nose walk into a bar. I would tell you what the bartender said, but to be honest, the bar was pretty noisy and I didn’t hear what he said.”

“I thought about how my great-grandparents had starved to death. I thought about their wasted bodies being fed to incinerators because people they didn’t know hated them. I thought about how the children who lived in this house had been burned up and blown apart because a pilot who didn’t care pushed a button. I thought about how my grandfather’s family had been taken from him and how because of that my dad grew up feeling like he didn’t have a dad. And how I had acute stress and nightmares and was sitting alone in a falling down house and crying hot stupid tears all over my shirt. All because of a seventy year old hurt that had somehow been passed down to me like some poisonous heirloom.”