Nonfiction

He told stories of plunging into icy rivers in only his underwear or cobbling together skit costumes from branches and dirty socks. He craved strange foods: dehydrated stews and some drink he called “Tang.”

I was reaching for the handle again when our mother said, “Where are we?” slowing down while looking back and forth as if she was searching for house numbers.

If love happens to you, it would probably justify the way it takes control over your being.