My father is shaking his head. “Let me guess: men are jerks.” I hug him too. “I love you. I wish we hadn’t had to pretend my world would be like yours.” At First Avenue I see a cop on horseback. “Did Amazon make you a drunk?” he asks. “No,” I say, “it just let me map the edges.” “What did you find at the edges?” asks the horse. “The erasure of all my traits,” I say, a sugar cube on my open palm.
