Rainclouds gather over our pillboxes, hid in the hills.

Mom went to the hospital last night. They scanned her brain, and found a dark spot near the back of her head. Years ago, she worked at the post office, and something fell on her from a shelf. Driving home from work, her left side began tingling, and she felt disoriented. Over the phone, she tried to tell us it was stress, but even she knew better. We met her at Norwood, and dad drove her back to WakeMed. I went home and fell asleep on the couch, waiting for calls that never came.

Today, I'm going to take my first half-dose of bitter irony. And the Vyvanse.

The difference between my ironic indignity and somebody else's horrible tragedy is really only a few pills, when you think about it.

Choice, we perversely consider, is a virtue.

Outside, the birds are lecturing their young about nobility and frivolity: last week, I watched a boy discover a chick that had fallen two stories from a gutter and died on the concrete sidewalk. Young death doesn't make any sense. His dad kept calling him away from the little bird's body.

At 1:45, I've got to be at the free clinic.

Dad says I should talk to Father Sal at St. Raphael's.

I've slipped offscreen.