Our city is full of Used-to-Bes, of people who came from somewhere else, whose degrees don’t matter here, who check out groceries and pump gas and return to their single room in a rented apartment, to a framed photo of them in their cap and gown holding a degree above their bed. Tiffany doesn’t talk to us, she just shuffles along quietly, and when we’re in the kitchen together she’s so still that my breath feels rude.
