Morgan was eleven, and for six years it had been just the two of us.We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an old brick building in Tacoma, Washington, with a view of a parking lot, a laundromat, and on clear days, if you leaned out the kitchen window and squinted, a tiny white corner of Mount Rainier. The radiator clanked in winter. The kitchen faucet dripped no matter what I did to it. Morgan had decorated his bedroom door with stickers of every NBA team except the Lakers, because he said a man has to have principles.He was the sort of kid who hugged me every morning before school, quick and hard, around the waist, and then glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of his friends had seen. If anyone was within fifty yards of the car, the hug became a fist bump. If the coast was clear, I got the whole thing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Morgan was eleven, and for six years it had been just the two of us.We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an old… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":87349,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-87348","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news"],"yoast_head":"\n