One afternoon Josh calls, and in the understatement of the century, I tell him that I’m tired of being angry. “Then don’t be,” he says, as if this is the most logical thing in the world. And maybe it is. “But if I’m not angry, then isn’t it the same as saying it’s okay? Doesn’t it mean I’m condoning it?” “No. It means you’re accepting it.” He takes a breath and exhales. “I’m not telling you that you shouldn’t be pissed. You should be furious. You’re entitled to every ounce of anger you have.” He stops speaking for a moment, and when he starts again his voice is quiet, and I can hear the
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