“I really think you’re in some kind of whacked-out denial right now if you think these days are loveable.” “These days are days,” I say, calm and furious. “We choose how we hold them. Good night.” Around 4 a.m. I feel his hand on my back. “I’m so afraid I can’t breathe,” he whispers. “I know,” I say, scootching a little toward him but still facing away. “So am I.”