“So, let me get this straight,” Roxy takes a sip of her beer. “You made this lasagna yourself, with all organic ingredients, and your dad won’t eat it because it got a little jostled?”

I lean against Roxy’s worn kitchen counter, holding my own beer in my hand, looking at Roxy’s short, black fingernails running up and down the neck of the beer bottle.

“The medicines he is on for his back and leg have made his appetite weird,” I explain, taking a ...