Bennett lurched up from the bed and strapped his guitar over his shoulders and began to play it as if he were a robot, jerking his hand up and down so that it sounded like a radio tuning in and out. “Ev . . . ry . . . lit . . . tle . . . thing,” he sang, in a robot voice, “gon . . . na . . . be . . . all . . . right.” This was very funny. The opposite of Bob Marley was robot, but Josh had not realized this before. Josh laughed so hard his eyes watered. He could actually feel the tears forming behind his eyeballs, a region he’d never mentally explored but which he sensed as vividly now as the
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