...facts. I guess it’s pretty small to shake my fist at pro-lifers at this point, especially since that term’s been co-opted by anti-dead racists, instead, though it’s mostly the same crowd, but I had to watch my dying wife give birth to my dead child, and I had to set him on fire. If you haven’t been there, keep your hands off my bodies.
    I don’t know why I called him Charles just now. That wasn’t Charles. Charles was the son we never had. Our daughter would have been Mary.
    She called faraway friends and family and said her goodbyes, and made plans to see anybody nearby and have her final dates for coffee. I slept while she was gone, sweating out nightmares of a child-sized spider gently testing Charles with a furry forelimb as he lay there in the hole waving, waving. I don’t sleep good during the day. I always...