47 It.
The first time I met it, I wasn’t in a graveyard or at a funeral. I wasn’t watching a movie or a stupid early internet video or listening to my classmates make awful jokes.
I wasn’t even alone.
I was in my kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for the millionth time that day, looking for something to eat, and having discovered some lasagna leftovers from last night, I took the whole pan for myself. I didn’t even bother scooping the leftovers out; I just got a fork and stood at the counter staring out the window into the backyard, eating cold lasagna as mindlessly as a dog gnaws on a bone.
Which is when I heard the voices from the living room.
It had been a year after Lizzy’s death, and we’d gone to the graveyard earlier that day with my uncle Colin and my aunt Trish and laid
