Wincing, I draw my knees up to my chest, quiet for a moment while I watch him roll the joint. I can take one look at him and know he's not okay, even though I think Chris might be a master at hiding that kind of shit, but there isn't a whole lot to be said. Just seven months ago, I heard every fuckin' condolence in the book. I know how fuckin' hollow every one of 'em sounded.

"How old were you?"