My jaw tightens as two random memories flood my mind: My father telling me I’d never mean more to him than a check from the government before he passed out in the chair as he drank away my lunch money, and Hawke as a twelve-year-old, handing me a rolled up brown paper bag secretly by the lockers before we hit the lunch room. It was a sandwich his dad made him, telling me he ate so much at breakfast, and it’d get thrown away if I didn’t take it. He always knew, just like now.
