Seven Crumpled Dollar Bills on a Pine Table in Michigan

with the wooden headboard.

The work was slow. Mike felt every year of his fifty-eight in his knees as they hauled the mattress up the three wooden steps of the porch.

“That is the last of it,” Shark said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He leaned against the doorframe, his breath coming in short, even counts.

“We are getting old, Shark,” Mike said.

“Maybe,continue reading …