grip raze most days mike walks with a cane. he used to drive a transport truck. that's how he got hurt. he still lives with his mom. he's the one who takes care of her now. she's almost ninety. he'll die before he puts her in a home. his liver pulls double duty, filling in for the absent fist-sized organ that used to live behind his ribs. he has to disinfect everything. germs our bodies wouldn't even notice could kill him. he collects gold rings. i don't think he wears any of them. maybe he learned not to after he broke a few. he has a handshake that could crush a brick. and he would do anything for a friend. the day our car battery died just outside of willistead park, he showed up with jumper cables. he got us home so i could get rid of a sock soaked with snow that snuck through the cracks in the bottom of a boot i don't wear anymore. he gave us money so we could keep eating when shit got bad. he helped us move our asshole of an oven far enough away from a corner of the kitchen it didn't want to leave so we could replace a dead heating element. he always calls me by my initials. the last time i saw him, he said, "stay out of trouble. and if you can't, call me." he'd pick up the phone, too. even if it was three in the morning and his back was killing him. 220715 what's it to you? who go blather from