Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

box and pulled out the original manila envelope that held the 1992 sketches. The paper felt thick, the grain coarse under my thumb as I rubbed the edge of the seal.

“I am not going to hide in this motel while they celebrate a lie,” I said.

Clara stopped her tea cup halfway to her mouth.

“The agency is having their thirty-year dinner continue reading …