Down the hall of screams, men in plastic suits go by with another body in a wheelbarrow. The fifth one today—a woman in her mid-sixties.
She clapped her hands and said “I’m supposed to love Cancers,” when she found out his birthday. Her name was Bobbi. Even though he went by Robert, she insisted they be known as the Bobbies. Her favorite restaurant was Red Lobster—imagine that.
A paperboy disappeared from the streets of Des Moines, Iowa when I was a baby. News of his absence rang through the state for years.