Gregg sprawled across the hardwood floor like a lizard prone against the side of a child’s mesh-wire cage. Snores rumbled from his mouth. A fine film of moisture coated his skin. He could have been anywhere from his mid-thirties to almost fifty. His face was so puffy, so white and distended, it made any narrower estimate of his age impossible. His hair was curly. His eyes were closed. His boyfriend, Jack, reached down to pick up the cell phone flipped open in Gregg’s hand.

They had been in the jungle for a week and Thailand for three weeks before that. It was their first trip abroad together, a great adventure away from their families. A chance to be free and to be together. They were eighteen and told each other they were in love.

The son keeps chanting, “threeeeee, twooooooo, wunnnnnn, fire!” twenty or thirty times; he’s a record with a deep scratch. When his launcher misfires, he shrieks, “backfire,” or “watch out!” and runs in thrilled circles around the yard throwing plastic army men or mini metal dump trucks. His kid sister has a friend over, and this girl’s getting nervous. Little sis suggests they escape the searing sun by returning inside. As she passes him, the boy grabs his sister’s pigtail—demanding they keep playing his game of shifting rules.

 My own children will remember me fixing the DVD player with a butter knife, or making a duster out of an old sock, a pole and some duct tape.