Since Mr. Friday’s fatal car accident on the Fourth of July, Mitchell has taken care of me. I’ve been eating and bathing because of him. He’s the one who’s been putting Valium next to my bed with a glass of Merlot, saying before I fall to sleep, “When you’re ready to take this, I’ll help you.” He feeds me a codeine-based drug called Numerox to balance my nerves. He serves me toast, eggs, and Bloody Marys. He’s been dressing me in the mornings and reading the newspaper to me over lunch. In the evening, he reads The Traveler by John Twelve Hawks to me, even though I’m not listening. If Mitchell had not been at my side during the last four days, I’d probably curl up and die.
“Mr. Friday would have loved this service,” Mitchell says. His right shoulder kisses my left one. They like to kiss; I
