Phillip’s family bounced down the stairs like a cluster of pachinko balls. They rolled into the overheated kitchen and lodged themselves around the cramped breakfast nook. I sat shoulder to shoulder with them, so close together that the rims of our dinner plates practically touched. Phillip’s siblings—all of whom were significantly older than Phillip and held down white-collar jobs; two of his brothers were still wearing their Wall Street ties—had vacated their Manhattan apartments and moved back home, back to Yonkers, after their father died six months earlier. He’d had a heart attack on the subway during rush hour, no doubt…