“Oh good, Michael.” She squeezed my hands. “So sleep on the couch for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out a more permanent place for you.” Tomorrow, I imagined her saying, we’ll figure out a more permanent place for your disgusting, diseased, morally frightening body, which is too much for my son to handle, my son, who is eighteen years old and who may soon enlist in the army because he is willing and able to kill people, but I will refuse you the comfort of your normal bed, on this, one of the worst nights of your life, in order to appease his bigotry and coddle his feelings of superiority to
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