I know I said I would post every night. I thought I would be able to sit down every evening and bang some 600 words. But the itinerary is brutal: I wake up at 6 …
He tells me he punishes his son by sending him to the “Naughty Corner.” He’s 5. The son, that is. Naughty Corner. I turned that phrase over in my head, like you would an idea you haven’t quite warmed …
The cop who flags me down, the traffic cop who later leans into my window, has a face that isn’t in the mood for folk and dance. And he has eyes that have been bled off sympathy. Think Judge …
