My Childhood Sweetheart Asked Me to Sign a Special Folder in Room Four Hundred Seven

dark coffee over my clean white sneakers.

By seven o’clock that evening, the brown stain on my right sneaker had dried into a stiff, dark crescent.

I sat in the vinyl visitor chair of Room Four Hundred Seven, watching the autumn light fade through the narrow window. The radiator in the corner gave a low, metallic hiss, releasing a dry warmth that smelled continue reading …