Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

was already sitting there, his wool coat buttoned to his chin and his hands tucked into his pockets. He cleared his throat, the sound gravelly and low, and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses as we approached.

“Martha,” Arthur said, giving me a small, cautious smile. “I am glad you came.”

“Arthur,” I said.

“Gerald wants to help,” Arthur said, leaning forward continue reading …