You Do Not Do

“Seven kids,” Gus said. “Then my parents, a couple grandparents, an aunt or a cousin passing through.”

He hated it. They all hated it. They slept five to a bed.

“You didn’t want that side against the wall. You’d be crushed.”

The family’s just back from the internment, his eldest sister, and he’s sitting on the porch, nursing a beer, even though it’ll keep him up all night. Everyone else is inside. It reeks of food.

“Every night at dinner,” he said, “my father would ask us the same question. What good did you do today, he’d say. What good?”

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