The adult part of herself knew that the doorman meant well, but the child inside curled into a tight ball. “Thank you, Mike,” she heard herself sa..., as she walked out to the waiting cab.Getting in, she thought about calling Malcolm. During the first year of grad school, he had unexpectedly become her best friend. In an Ivy League archeology program, they were both outcasts from the solidly upper middle-class white norm of their fellow students. Melissa was working class Irish-American, only. Jonathan Davis rings a bell, you think, eyes fluttering as if it’ll help you search your memory better.“You have a wife, Haley, and looks like... 4 kids! Well,” it let out a ghostly chuckle in sharp contrast to the sharp, nearly stereotypical accent, “at least four kids that lived at your house, I should say.”“Come again?” You ask.“Oh, the fourth isn’t yours. How fun!” It paused to flip through some more forms. “Just as I thought. This will clear things up.”You wait and the skeleton glances at. More

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