“No, I dïnnae think yer drunk.” He gives me a long-suffering look. “But, Daph, yer figuring yer shit out. Yer mind’s all over the place.” He breathes out his nose. “I just want it on me.” “It is on you!” I protest, and my foot stomps in my heart. “Now”—he shrugs like he’s already conceded to it—“for bye, when we do that, we’re no’ doing it because some wee footer forgot yer birthday.” “Why will we do it?” I ask him very quietly. Jem stares over at me a few seconds. “Because we cannae no’ anymore.”
