TWENTY-SEVEN
I found our friendly neighborhood zombie in the kitchen, where he was dismantling our toaster. "Don't start," he said without looking up. There were screwdrivers and other shiny things scattered all over the near counter. "It's not like you eat toast or bagels, anyway."
"Like I care what you're doing with an appliance? If you're looking for more braaaaain stimulation, how about tackling some of my laundry?"
Marc laughed, the first genuine laugh I'd heard from the guy since he went toes up in his bedroom last week. He set down the screwdriver and picked up a water glass filled with clear blue liquid. Half of it went down his throat in a few thirsty gulps, and then he picked up the tool again.
"I think you should lay off the Windex."
"This is cr
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