I may as well have died too. The asshole drunk driver? He hardly suffered a scratch, and didn’t remember a thing. I was lost. I didn’t want to liv... any longer. One dreary Wednesday evening I was sitting at the dining room table writing my suicide note when my older brother burst into the kitchen. Scott was like Kramer from Seinfeld in that he never knocked before he would just come barging in. He lived in L.A. with his wife Monica, but he was in San Francisco that week on business so I had him. A glance showed it was at the end. Somebody had watched it again, or let it run. I knew we were at a make-or-break point."Do you want more counseling?" I asked. Both Hiram and Mildred were standing, not quite side by side, but closer than I'd ever seen them standing before. Gertrude had greeted me and then retreated to a chair with a book, like she wasn't interested. But when I asked the question, the book sagged in her hands and she turned her head fractionally towards us.They looked at each. More

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