Michael Zanetti 

I remember the first one like I remember them all. This gangly little five-year-old making himself small in the backseat of the car, the middle seat a gap between him and Lacey as they talked on and off the whole drive about whatever it was five-year-olds talked about back then. He’d brought a small cloth bag with him, and he was showing her his action figures, these strong, poorly proportioned men with large heads and reluctant smiles. When we got to the house, I asked him to take off his shoes on the porch and he looked at me worried.