Chapter seventy-one (II).

It was weird to be sitting around a table on Christmas after about five years of not observing the tradition. Even the entire imagery of myself, in Trigger's t-shirt and shorts, seated at the head of the oval-shaped table, with a burly, scantil dressed, gay murderer directly opposite me and close to a rebellious nephew that seemed to be avoiding my stare and a talkative niece—who, for some reason, was as quiet as a lamb—was quite the comical portrait of a family.