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It says so. In the text. That I’m reading right now.

The boy cut it down, Georgie.

He

Cut

It

Down.

It’s not dead, but surviving isn’t “happy.”

Georgie

I concede your point, but I still think there’s more there.

Logan

It’s okay. I can wait for you to come around.

I laugh, and we send a few more texts about the story until I ask him about the game.

Logan

Not our best game. But I wasn’t playing, so I can’t take credit for the loss.

I try to take credit for all wins, though. Even if I didn’t play.

I laugh and stand up to check the fridge. There are still tamales from Alma’s drop-off a couple of days ago. I heat one up and then send off another text.

Georgie

That’s a bold strategy. How’s it working?

Logan

I have no idea, but credit usually flows toward the most confident guy in the room, so I’ll fake it till I take it.

Georgie

I should try that with Marlowe.

I stare at my text. That was way, way more than I meant to give. I wait, the phone warm in my hand.

Logan

Marlowe’s your stepmom, right? Does that happen a lot?

Georgie

I shouldn’t have said anything. It was just a bad joke.

Logan

I know something about those kind of jokes. I think Freud would call them slips, but *I* never would.

I can’t quite smile, and even though Alma’s tamales are the best in the state, when I take the first bite, it tastes like cardboard.