They led me down the hallway and into a stainless-steel room and it didn’t make sense. I don’t mean in the sense of justice, the way the world works, how the way things should be get fucked over by the way they turn out. I mean, something was wrong. I knew it the minute I saw him. Something wasn’t right about it. For one, his arm was a mess, bruised and scratched and cut, like he’d shot up with a rake. Like he didn’t know what he was doing. A user doesn’t forget how to use. Besides, when did Frank not know how to do something? Frank didn’t overdose, not by himself, anyway. Somebody gave him the shot, and somebody gave Froehmer the wrong story. I thought about calling him right away to set him straight, then I thought better of it. He wouldn’t be happy that I saw Frank in the first place. I’d talk to him later about who told him about Frank, who gave him the story. Froehmer could find out who was responsible. All he had to do was find them; I would go get them. Frank didn’t do this. It was someone else. It still didn’t make sense.

—

The morning after my mother died, I heard her in the kitchen making breakfast. I was in my bed and I could hear her, like every other morning, cutting fruit or mixing waffle batter or making scrambled eggs, something good to get me out the door and off to school. I knew she wasn’t there, but I heard her all the same, heard the familiar sounds she used to make, and could smell something cooking on the stove. When I got downstairs, it was my father at the stove. He was carefully cutting a leftover baked potato, cutting it into thin slices and placing them in the hot pan. He then took a couple of pieces of sausage and cut them into thin slices and added them to the potato. Finally, he took some eggs and added them in the same pan. I had never seen my father make breakfast. He would grill a steak or a hamburger, maybe even some chicken once in a while, but I’d never seen him in the kitchen at breakfast. He was usually up and gone by the time I got up.

—