Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

up into the cab of his truck. “Come back after five when I finish my run, and I will sign whatever you want.”

He slammed the cab door, leaving us in a cloud of grey smoke that smelled of sulfur and hot asphalt.

By three in the afternoon, the heat in our sunroom was thick and still. Donald sat at the wicker table, his wool tie loosened continue reading …