I can’t get out of bed, strangling in sheets, soaked with tears, drool, snot—screaming louder than when Daddy died and I wore white gloves and a black headband like Caroline Kennedy at her dad’s funeral—I’m crying for Daddy and Gunther, and I can’t even imagine how Phil feels—and I’m tearing at my pillow until my fingers are raw and I’m numb inside trying to understand, How can someone fucking bleed to death in nineteen minutes?