Around midnight my mother came up and stood on the step below me.
"You should sleep," she said.
"I have thirty-four hours."
"I know." She sat down beside me, carefully, on account of her knees. We sat there. She smelled like the outside, like cold air and exhaust and the inside of mail trucks. "I meant it," she said. "Both parts. The pocket. And the proud."
"I know."
"I don't know which one's bigger."
"I know, Mom."
She put her hand on my head the way Krista had in September, and then she went to bed, and I sat there.