THE JOURNALIST IS calling again. I don’t know how he got my number. I suppose it couldn’t have been that hard.

My whole life, people have been selling me out to get their two cents in the paper. It seems to happen in cycles. Every seven years or so, the story resurfaces and with it a new round of investigation, a new round of phone calls. A bunch of bullshit articles in the tabloids. My mother’s face staring out at me from a newsstand as I try to put my groceries through at the checkout without shaking. One time she was even on a milk carton, of all the places to put a dead woman’s face. It will die down again. It always does.