“Dude, dysentery is a bitch!” Matt Cooper squinted at the rudimentary picture of an ox and wagon, and then shifted his hazy gaze to his friend Snake, laying on the floor.

“What’s that?” Snake asked, pointing up with one hand while reaching blindly for the paper plate of gooey brownies behind his head with the other.

“It means I shit myself to death.” Matt replied before dissolving into laughter.

I’d been feeling lonely ever since my long-term boyfriend passed away in our local Vietnam War re-enactment. It was something we did for fun in my hometown of Mendota Heights, Minnesota. He died a heroic death: he got his leg blasted off by a grenade that everyone thought had been a costume prop, but they really do sell functional hand grenades on functionalhandgrenades.com.

Mark’s entrails screamed. He hobbled into the doctor’s office, took the clipboard and gingerly sat. Nerves mixed with pain as he determined what to write. Mark rehearsed (in his mind, of course) his word choice and hand motions. He hoped his concerns were unwarranted. He’d likely be assigned to a room that hadn’t been retrofitted yet. He drove past three other hospitals to get to County General, one of the last still under renovation.

Mari lugs two heavy suitcases into the office and heaves them into the corner. “Where’s yours?” she asks me.

I point to a half-filled garbage bag.

“That’s all you got?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

Pass the grissini and listen carefully…

Right now I’m the only person who matters in your world, understand?

Not your wife, Meredith. Not your son, Dylan. Not your part-time server, Anushka, who you found on Nextdoor and pay five bucks an hour plus tips—nice touch, transferring the cost to your guests in a passive aggressive masquerading as a virtue kinda way. Cute. Super-millennial.