Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

down the hall.

The clock in the hall struck eleven before I finally went upstairs to our bedroom.

Donald was already asleep, his breathing heavy and even under the patchwork quilt.

I sat on the edge of the dresser stool in the dark, the green folders of order slips resting on my lap like lead weights. I had slipped them out of the office before locking continue reading …