You’re lucky. It’s always them and not you. The family trapped in the fire, the secretary slain in the parking lot holding her coffee and Egg McMuffin, the ones rushed to emergency after the potluck. You’re lucky you didn’t touch the tuna casserole, and went for the baked chicken instead. Your friend with breast cancer that was detected too late—metastasized to the lymph nodes, the lungs, a few months to live—lucky there’s no history in your family. Another friend’s fiancé, heart attack at forty-seven. You lie in bed at night, your head on your lover’s chest, and you’re grateful. Your teenaged daughter, unlike all her friends, hasn’t become sullen or combative, addicted to cigarettes or booze. She’s not in the bathroom with her finger down her throat to throw up dinner. You and your family are fine. You’re happy. It’s like you’re in your own little boat, just you, sailing along, and the wind is up and nothing’s leaking. All around you you can see other boats filling up, flipping over, sliding under. If you look into the water you can watch them for a while, going down slowly, getting smaller and farther away. Soon, if nothing happens to you, if your luck holds, really, holds, you’ll end up completely alone.

你很幸运。总是他们，不是你。困在火中的那一家，在停车场被杀的那个手拿咖啡和麦当劳麦满分的秘书，聚餐后冲向急诊室的那些人。你很幸运，没有碰金枪鱼砂锅，而是拿了烤鸡。你的朋友得了乳腺癌，发现太晚——转移到了淋巴、肺部，只能活几个月——很幸运，你没有家族史。另一个朋友的未婚夫，四十七岁心脏病发作。夜晚你躺在床上，头枕在爱人胸膛，心怀感恩。你十几岁的女儿和她所有朋友都不一样，既不抑郁也不好斗，也没沉溺于烟酒。她没有跑到厕所里，手指深深插进喉咙，想把晚饭吐出来。你和你的家庭一切安好。你很幸福。仿佛你在自己的小船里，只有你，独自航行，风起了，船无任何渗漏。周围，你能看到其他船只正灌满水，翻了，向下滑去。如果你望向水中，你能短暂看到他们，慢慢地沉下，变小，远去。很快，如果你没遇上任何事，如果你的幸运是真的，毫不掺假的，你便最终独自一人。