North was wearing the same threadbare sweater he always seemed to have on, a decades-old gift from his mother. It was moth-eaten, the elbows worn through, then darned, then worn through again. Split seams at the shoulders left stitches dangling loose in midair. The collar was almost severed and hovered above the chest like a necklace. Knitted by hand in a cable pattern, the sweater was now far too small: his powerful frame had outgrown it long ago.
North and I were in our living room, reclined on beanbag chairs we’d found curbside at the university dorms after school had let out the previous spring. I was eating a PB&J made with the last of our Adams peanut butter. North was systematically shelling pistachios one by one until he had a handful, then scarfing the pile and starting over again.
