Six Pairs of Thick Gray Socks Saved My White House on Elm Street

Diner, her jaw set tight.

The diner smelled of fried onions and wet wool coats. We sat in a corner booth, the formica table cold under my wrists. The waitress brought two mugs of black coffee, but neither of us touched them.

“You made a scene in there, Mother,” Brenda said, leaning across the table, her high-pitched voice a whisper now. “You need to continue reading …