Ten thirty-seven, Wednesday morning, the crow perched on the branch above his window cawed; his dog Paco whined; Marco his sponsor felt queasy; his daughter Kimmy called him; his shadow raced across the empty bottle; his neighbor doubled her batch of sweet rolls; the gulf wind gusted, while sodden summer thunder clouds passed overhead.
Ten thirty-seven, Wednesday morning, the mother of the boy he put in a wheelchair the night he drove drunk heading home from the annual office Christmas party felt a pang of anger, then relief. Ten thirty-seven Wednesday morning, his wife knew but she kept folding laundry.
Ten thirty-seven, Wednesday morning, the mother of the boy he put in a wheelchair the night he drove drunk heading home from the annual office Christmas party felt a pang of anger, then relief. Ten thirty-seven Wednesday morning, his wife knew but she kept folding laundry.
