support from my family.” But when nobody said nothing, he looked at the Famous Author and held his hands out like this. “I’m sorry,” he said to her. Then he looked at us. “We’re leaving,” he said. And they got up to leave. And the waitress came by again. “Are they leaving?” she said as they were leaving. “They’re leaving,” Mitch said. Mom put her head down and folded her hands like she was praying. Then Mitch told the waitress we were leaving too, we wouldn’t be needing the table after all, thank you very much, and we all got up, kind of like zombies, and we left. Ah, the agita! Know what I’m saying? Out in the parking lot, Mitch took the keys from me—I was too shaken up to drive, you know?—and he drove us down Mamaroneck Avenue to Walter’s for some hot dogs. “We’ve lost our golden boy,” Mom said, dramatic as usual. She was in the passenger seat, of course. I was in the back. “It’ll be okay,” I said. I patted her on the shoulder. “He’ll come to his senses,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll call him.” But I knew she was right. We all knew. What a dumb-ass, right? He always was a dumb-ass. Stupid little shit. He was like this as a kid. A dreamer. He used to just sit and read for hours. “Our Little Professor,” Pop used to call him. But you know the problem with books? They’re not real life, that’s the problem. They’re not real life.