Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

Arthur was still sitting in his chair, his head bowed so low his wire-rimmed glasses seemed about to slide off his nose. His hands were clasped between his knees, his knuckles white.

“You did it,” he whispered, his gravelly voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling projector. “They will audit every file from 2011 now.”

“They continue reading …