NATHAN
I don't sleep well all week.
Every night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying Monday's lunch conversation over and over. Chloe's voice when she said *he died*. The way her hands shook when she stabbed at her salad. The look on her face when she realized none of us knew.
*He had ALS. He couldn't move, couldn't talk by the end.*
I made jokes about Sophie's dad being MIA. About him abandoning her. About him not caring enough to stick around.
And he was dying. And then he died.
And Sophie was grieving the whole time.
By the time Saturday morning rolls around, I feel like I'm going to be sick.
I sit in my car outside the Riverside Community Center for ten minutes before I can make myself go inside. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white,
