I scarcely even want to write this down. Standing somewhere close to rain, evening, filtered light, a lot of windows. The kind of night-lit scene that would have been vital and vibrant had it not been for the crush of anxiety and grief. Ann standing there, tears streaming, maybe naked, saying, Baby Megan is dying. Knowing shed sensed it, dreamed it, knew it. Telling myself she could be wrong, but knowing shes usually right about these things. Thinking, cancer, yes, thats why Megans stomachs been hurting her in so many places. The dead weight of the unavoidable truth. Numbness. Walking by myself, riding a bike maybe, by our old Fratney St neighborhood, only in this world its close to an area like Broadway/Caruthers in Cape, and the street is made of dirt and is only as wide as an alley, and the houses are low and dumpy and small, and the lots are separated by cheap chain link fence, and each one only has about 500 square feet or so at the most. I am aware of how different things are here. How did it get this way?