“A coworker and I are going to stop by Cherry Hill tonight,” I tell Miles from the doorway as he’s brushing his teeth in our tiny, pink-tiled bathroom. He meets my eyes in the mirror, toothpaste foam spilling out of his mouth. “Why did you say it like that?” he asks. “Like what?” “Menacingly.” He spits into the sink and knocks the faucet on. “Like, Me and my friend are gonna pay you a little visit, and we might have a baseball bat with us.” “Because me and my friend are going to pay you a visit,” I say, “and we might have a baseball bat with us.”
