Brittany doesn’t come over anymore. Days that were once filled with child laughter now only have the dull monotony of a humming television with daytime game shows. Rocket lies by the back door, waiting for her, every day around three o’clock, as if the school bus will drop her off at any minute. I’ve told him a few times that it won’t, but I don’t think he hears me—or at least he pretends he doesn’t.
Omg bfd it’s not like the dog bit her. Accidents happen.
