Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

is tied to the agency goodwill.”

“The copy in my kitchen isn’t signed,” I said.

Arthur froze for a second, his fingers tightening on his mug. “Contracts get lost. It means nothing.”

He looked away, toward the highway where a logging truck rumbled past.

The wind off the water was sharp and smelled of salt and diesel. Gerald stood by the continue reading …