They hold each other’s gaze and time falls away, and the girls they were once could maybe, just maybe, become the angels on the shoulders of the women they are now. But Donna’s eyes grow distant. “I’m no one’s keeper, Mary Pat.” “You’re the second person to say that to me this week.” Mary Pat stands. “You know, we always say we stand for things here. We might not have much, but we have the neighborhood. We got a code. We watch out for one another.” She flicks her fingers and overturns her beer can. She watches it flow across Donna Shea’s parquet table. “What a crock of shit.” She lets herself
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