Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

through the thick mist rising off the Nisqually flats. By eight, the light was the gray color of wet concrete when I pulled into Arthur’s gravel driveway in Bellevue, parked behind his spotless sedan, and shut off the engine.

Arthur was already outside, standing near his wooden garage doors, holding a pair of heavy rusty garden shears. He was wearing continue reading …