We were in Tammy's bedroom.

She was sitting on the floor in front of me while I brushed her long, dark hair. Tammy loved having her hair brushed, even when my cold fingers sometimes grazed her neck, inadvertently causing her to shudder. She used to hold my hands, back in the days when my hands were warm. These days, however, she almost never held my hands, and I didn't blame her. Who'd want to hold hands with a living corpse?

I cherished these quiet moments when I brushed her hair, listening to her stories about school and boys, teachers and boys, and movies and boys. She often asked me what it was like to kiss a boy or to be in love. She sometimes asked why Daddy and I were no longer together. Mostly we laughed and giggled, and if we were being too loud, Anthony would sometimes stick his head in the door and tell us we were being lame.

Tonight, Anthony was in the living room watching cartoons. Something on Nick at Night. He laughed, slapping his hand on the carpet the way he does when he sits on the floor. The vibration reached even us.

"Cartoons are so juvenile," said Tammy.

"Totally," I said.

"I haven't watched them in, like, a year."

"Same here."

"Well, I guess there are one or two that are okay, but mostly they're lame."

"Mostly," I said, nodding.

Anthony erupted in laughter again, hitting the floor even harder. The thuds reverberated up through our butts.

"God, he's so annoying," said Tammy. She didn't sound annoyed. She sounded impressed that she knew the word "annoying."

"He's eight years old," I said, as if that explained everything.

She shrugged and I continued brushing her long hair. Warm air from the heater vent washed over us. The TV blared from the living room. I cherished these small moments.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"There's something different about Anthony."

I stopped brushing. I think my heart might have stopped altogether. I resumed brushing and kept my voice as calm as possible. "Different how?" I asked.

"Well, yesterday I saw him wrestling with some other boys."

"Boys like to wrestle. It's what makes them boys."

"No, not that. He was wrestling the other boys."

"What do you mean, honey?"

She turned and looked back at me, her big round eyes looking at me like I was the world's biggest dolt. And maybe I was. "It was him against like seven other boys."

"They ganged up on him? That's not fair - "

"No, Mommy. They didn't gang up on him. They couldn't do anything to him. He was throwing them around like they were, you know..."

"Rag dolls?"

"What's a rag doll?"

"Never mind."

She went on to tell me that Anthony Moon, aged eight, was probably the strongest kid in their school.

I processed that information as I continued to brush. Somehow the subject turned to zits and I was telling her about the big one I got on my right nostril when I was in the tenth grade, and soon Tammy was doubled over on her side with laughter. From in the next room, I was vaguely aware of the TV being turned off and the trudging of footsteps.

Anthony stuck his head in his sister's room, looked at us on the floor and said, "Lame."

And walked on.

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