We were comp/rhet PhDs (the newer cohorts) and literature MAs (the lifers), plus a handful of nervous MFAs forever running two steps behind but making up for it with skillful mimicry and lucky ears for language.
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Gaffney is born in the middle of an armistice between his mother and sleeping pills. His mother, Leila, gasps and struggles in the hospital bed. Push, the doctor says
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The night I start being a dog for Mom, the two of us eat McDonald’s on the porch. Mom stares at the ceramic dog bowl near the sliding door, empty except for a copper ribbon of wandering ants.
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