I was roused later that evening by voices coming from the living room and found Jackson and his parents enjoying after-dinner coffees at our dining room table.
“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat and rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“So the thing is feeling poorly?” Mrs. Ledbetter demanded in what seemed a very unfriendly voice.
“Do you have to call him that?” I asked sharply.
“What should I call him?” she asked.
“You could use his name,” I said.
“Noah,” she said, as if trying it out. “A biblical name. A very curious name for the child of a homosexual and a degenerate drug-addicted mother, don’t you think?”
“His friends call him Noey,” Jackson threw in, as if to smooth over the moment.
“Well, how is…Noey?” she asked primly.
“He’s fine,” I snapped.
“Why don’t you join us?” Mr. Ledbetter a
