Dead parents are gruesome, yes, but anyone who’s anyone in children’s literature has either been orphaned or abandoned; well-adjusted kids from stable two-parent homes don’t go on hero quests.

But life is not like that. You are not an airline. You can’t remove a single olive from every salad served in first class and save one point two million dollars.

Childhood friends are continuity, uninterrupted connections between selves, and you hold on them. You hold on them and you love them, but sometimes they’re not quite comfortable.