“My plushie.” “Your plushie.” “Yeah. Ana gave it to me.” “Did she, now?” “She bought it for me with her monthly allowance.” Which is nearly as high as my salary used to be. Misery is not strict with that child. “I sleep with it every night.” He looks at me like he’s considering laying down a tarp and butchering me on it. “It’s important to me,” I continue weakly. “What? You don’t believe that a family can be a girl and her pink stuffed penguin?” “I emphatically do not.” “You’re so bigoted.”
