"It's an old building," Becky said, when Peter asked her. "Do you get them in your apartment, too?" She'd given him a look, then, as if she thought he was trying to score an invite into her place, as ... [+]
My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and join the dog on the rug at the foot of their bed. Every morning for years, Father would find me and put me back, so I was told. I never woke in those moments, so I don't remember ever being happy in my father's arms. Mother attributed what she called my "strange behavior," to an overzealous love of a mutt that I refused to call anything but Dog. Father said it was normal. This calling my mother Moth