Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

from the motel gutters.

“I am going to see Frank at eleven,” I said.

Frank’s office was located in a single-story professional building behind the local pharmacy, where the waiting room smelled of old copier toner and damp wool coats. He was sitting behind a metal desk covered in legal folders, his reading glasses sliding down his nose as he compared continue reading …