Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

water.

“He wants us to call Clara Sullivan,” I said to Donald’s back.

Donald took the bar of lava soap from the dish and began to rub it between his palms, the thick, grey lather smelling of pine tar and coal dust. He washed his hands for a long time, the water steaming as it ran down the drain.

“She took the records,” Donald said without continue reading …