Dad: “Have you seen your mother’s—Jamison, son, what are you looking at? And is that—oh, here’s Mom’s pills.” The top of the bottle is off. The bottle is empty. Dad sees that.
At this moment in time Mom’s little blue pills are churning around in my stomach as if they were assembling an atomic bomb. I suddenly remember where my left hand is.
Dad: “Are you—ahem—are you…” he gestures graphically. “Um, to a photo of some other guy’s, um…? Or is that just a really ugly girl, in which case I’ll take your mom’s—wait, this bottle is empty. Jamison…”
I’m waiting for the we’ve got to talk speech. I glance at his face—emotions are pouring over it like lemmings over a cliff. With my right hand I click off the picture and hit the wrong button. It enlarged it instead. With my left hand I let go of my
