by Joe Squance Yael Gonzalez drunk and forty years old, standing alone in the sitting room of my former best friend’s childhood home, decades after he’d last lived there, on the night following his mother’s memorial service. The house, for sale, was empty; the front door by chance unlocked. In I went, sloshing alcohol and full of fear. I expected the house to feel small but was struck anyway by its smallness—the rooms were tight, the doorways narrow. I knelt and swept my palm