Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

creak, and took my small brass flashlight into the corner.

I turned on the narrow beam, shielding the bulb with my fingers as I looked down at my hand.

Well now, a few ridges on my fingernails do not mean we are ready to sell our lives away.

But under the yellow glow, the truth was impossible to ignore. Deep, vertical ridges ran from continue reading …