Kevin is a man who faces you to talk to you; he will stop the car to have a conversation rather than have it looking at a road.

He stood in that doorway with one hand flat on the frame and looked at the gap between the two cribs, the gap he had measured to the width of his own shoulders, and he said it to the room instead of to me.

“Ten years.” He got that much out and then had to swallow.

“All those needles.

All those waiting rooms.

They told us straight out, didn’t they.