Clara Mireles, who was right, and who I lost in twenty-two days, and who has been married for seventeen years to a man I like.

The Jenkins porch job and about four referrals behind it, in the January of 2007, because my father made a telephone call at eight in the morning.

Four hundred and eighty dollars for an ear infection, which the clinic eventually wrote off, and which I asked for on gravel in front of three women in linen visors.

Two years of community college at Golden, part-time, around a job at a tyre place, for a boy who had eight hundred and sixty thousand dollars sitting in Denver the entire time, and who never once complained about it.

Twenty-three school days of paid administrative leave, which I brought on myself.