Our wounded little family sits around a plastic tree. A photo of M2 from a time after I fell into my sleep is by Ripley’s feet, and it’s creeping me out. To her left, Doc is pouring us coffees from a thermos laced with whiskey.
The gifts sit at the base of the tree, unopened. No one wants to be the first to unwrap one. Once you start, you begin to end.
I miss Dora. There’s no way I could go back to her now, not after I abandoned her. But still. Still.
Yeah. I’m ready to get out of here.
The Strange Adventures of Margery Jones 