Don't you ever touch my car again," Santangelo says with the same fury he had on his face when Jonah Griggs made comments about his mother. Raffy touches the car with her finger in a very dramatic way. "You've just made our hit list," he says, getting a hanky out of his pocket and cleaning off some imaginary mark.

And being that happy makes me feel guilty. Because I shouldn't be. Not while my mum is feeling the way she is. How I can dare to be happy is beyond me, and I hate my guts for it.

She knows that feeling too. Of believing that each time someone says her name, it’s to tell her that something bad has happened.

It's too late. Seventeen-year-olds don't need fathers. Oh god. I'm thirty-four years old and I need a father. I can't even begin to think what my daughter needs.

My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die.

Then I choose to drown. In hope. Rather than float into nothing.

City people. They may know how to street fight but they don't know how to wade through manure.