He (but don’t remember who) handed me a cup of hot, strong, black coffee.
He sighs, then begins speaking somberly. “I’m sorry. My c*…”
I don’t remember the rest. I’ve blacked it out. I don’t want to face it. It has happened twice in the past 48 hours. There is not that many people I would mourn for. And I am not ready to mourn for any of them. Not yet. Not without proof.