I could remember the details as if it had happened yesterday, even though it was hard to believe some of it had happened at all. Funerals were tricky like that. And life, I guess. The important parts you blocked out altogether, but the random, slanted moments haunted you, replaying over and over in your mind.

I only assumed those dresses were costumes, based on the garish nature of the plumage.

My mom was there, in some form, in some sense, in some universe. My mom was still my mom, even if she only lived in books and door locks and the smell of fried tomatoes and old paper. She lived.

The Sisters were Southern Baptist, and they went to church on Saturdays and Sundays, and most other days, too.

She didn't say a work, and I gave up trying, because you couldn't hear either one of us over the shattering noise of hearts breaking and the looming shadow of the last word, the one we refused to say.

I would love to say how nice it is to see you again, but that would be a lie. And I am nothing if not honest.

If this was a movie, we would've sat down at the table with the guys and they would have learned some kind of valuable lesson, like not to judge people by how they look, or that being different is okay. And Lena would've learned that all jocks weren't stupid and shallow. It always seemed to work in movies, but this wasn't a movie. This was Gatlin, which severely limited what could happen.