Sublime

as if he, too, might have another hundred years or two to document what time hides forever in plain sight.

J.A. McCullough

Every notch scratched in the kitchen door frame marked the growing up of someone now long dead.

Manhattan borough president Ruth Messinger,

happened hours before. An upsetting thing. Pulling up to the driveway after work, Harper saw Doug’s acid-green Mustang sitting out front, its front door hanging open like he’d leapt out so fast he hadn’t bothered to slam it shut. The garage open