I’m sending the sheared crusts of Excitable’s peanut-butter-on-sourdough sandwich swirling down the disposal when the boy himself bounds into the kitchen. He speaks with an uncharacteristic early-morning verve as I tie the handles of the plastic bag bearing his name, underlined and in bold black letters.
“Is the word, ‘Eh?’”
“No!” his enthusiasm undampened by my interruption. “On each card was a bikini model!”
“Yeah! But then the counselor took them away. After that, the game just wasn’t the same.”