Your parents know, I say, the first thing I have said since ordering a glass of lemonade now drained on the counter before me. I play with my straw and stir my melting ice cubes until there is enough water to drink. Again my mouth feels dry. Damien shakes his head. Does it matter, he says. I’m not there. Maybe I’ll never go back. But you’ll have to go back at some point. We all have to die at some point, he says. So what’s your point? I’ll deal with that when it’s time.
