Page 14 of Knocked Up

"It's pronounced Wah," I said, too fast, "according to a seven-year-old who was extremely firm with me about it…"

"It is," Beckett said. "That's right."

"Beckett."

"It's fine."

"It isn't, though, is it?"

He didn't answer. He picked a piece of towel lint off his knee.

"Do you want to hold one? I have to weigh them anyway."

"No. Give me Luna."

So I put a four-week-old kitten in the hand of the starting goaltender of the Denver Peaks. It went straight up his forearm, got itself stuck in his sleeve and screamed. He looked at me with genuine terror on his face.

I laughed so hard I had to put a hand on the exam table.

That was the first time I laughed in front of him in ten years. I felt something get up and walk out of the building.

While I was busy laughing, the little gray one climbed out of the tub and fell asleep against his thigh.

Obviously Roy.

"He's on me," Beckett said, not moving.

"He is."

"Should I…"

"No. Absolutely do not."

Margaret came in through the door that did not latch, sat down, and stared at him.

"Is she going to jump on me again?"

"Probably."

"Can we shut the door?"

"That door doesn't latch. It hasn't latched since 2016."

"I could fix that. It's a strike plate. Four minutes and an $8 part."

"Beckett."

"I'm only saying it's a strike plate."

Some enormous, tired, badly-maintained part of me wanted to say yes, please, fix the door. While you're in the building there are forty other things. I hadn't slept a full night since the spring. The leasing company called on Tuesdays and I'd started not answering my own phone.

And what I said was, "It's fine the way it is."

Because if I let somebody hand me one thing, I would find out what it was like to be handed things.

And then they stop.

Then the front bell went and I heard my brother's boots. On Wednesdays Eli did the runs.