cried, which was what I did most of the time back then, but hid it with another puff. This all felt like a precursor to death—Mom’s, ours, who knew—but what a comfort to laugh in the face of the devil with someone made of your own sinew and salt. We retreated to our own bedrooms, and watched the Lonnie Donegan skit on our respective phones. I heard his laugh ricochet. I felt braver.
