I remember a couple years ago, after getting into a shouting match with my mom’s boyfriend about my report card, running outside and hiding behind the old tool shed.
My neighbor, Tom, who’s a couple years older than me, saw me crying. He came over, sat with me, and handed me a cigarette.
“I could hear you guys from my room,” he said while he lit it. It put me into a coughing fit.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said as he handed me another. And, eventually, I did.
I guess I’ve gotten used to a lot of things.