I think about pearls. Pearls are congealed oyster spit. This is what I will tell Moira, later; if I can.
In ovens, my mother said; but there weren’t any pictures of the ovens, so I got some confused notion that these deaths had taken place in kitchens. There is something especially terrifying to a child in that idea. Ovens mean cooking, and cooking comes before eating. I thought these people had been eaten.
You can’t help what you feel, Moira once said, but you can help how you behave.
Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some.