This story took twenty years to write. At the end a diver goes missing. If you want to stop now, that’s about it.
She was dead, yes, but they didn’t talk about it.
Everything is wrong, thought William. This is how people die.
Lines shift. Lines change. Boundaries are redrawn. Whole new worlds, created out of bits of the past, from what is passed forward, accepted again, taken and renewed. This, too, is an act of faith, the going forward, the continuing on.
“Let’s go smoke up,” Tripp told me, but I knew what he wanted.
In three great piles on the barn’s floor were pyramids of skulls with the antlers still attached.
Cranberries that weren’t lively enough, that didn’t bounce, got thrown away. You saved that information for future use.
My brother is incredulous. “Did you know he wrote poetry?”
He imagined Charlotte, holding her phone, looking at the same flickering three dots. Like the oyster crackers in the restaurant, stepping stones to somewhere.
Everything is easy for a man who spent his boyhood separating hides from rabbits like pulling off a tube sock.