I came home from a double shift.
« I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this. »
That was it. No forwarding address or phone number.
Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been buried 11 days earlier. My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
I was 27, unmarried, and living above the hardware store where I swept floors and cut keys. I had exactly $312 in my checking account and a futon that didn’t fold all the way out.
One of the triplets made a sound, a soft, wet hiccup, as if she were trying to be polite.
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