“Tuan was telling me about a thing,” I said. “You have yourself stuffed. I’ve seen photos. A man sitting in a chair, holding a can of beer. Stuffed. Dead.” “I like that for you.” “You could put me in the corner of your living room, a kind of novelty party fixture. I’m holding a glass of wine, a frozen laugh on my face, my index finger pointing, as if I just said, ‘Good one!’” “I love it. Or on the stoop, to ward off Amazon package thieves.”
