After closing the door behind us and pitching us into darkness, I reached for the dangling chain that illuminated the glorified closet they called a coatroom. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, making the place feel like the interrogation room in a bad cop movie. No wonder the sign on...
I said, and my arms were crossed, but no one noticed, least of all my mother. She pretended to be engrossed in an old issue of People, her preoccupied little hum of acknowledgment clearly a brush-off. She passed me a crinkled Time magazine, with Hillary Clinton’s grinning face on the cover. Someo...