He’s been dead maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Long enough for the ice in his Jameson-and-ginger to turn thin, to drift apart, their edges fraying into the map of something broken.… more
Writer: Michael Anthony Ranfone
He’s been dead maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Long enough for the ice in his Jameson-and-ginger to turn thin, to drift apart, their edges fraying into the map of something broken.… more