The Sacramentum
She opened her mouth.
Solitude
Spirit
The dog is frozen against the fence post.
Drift
The city had forgotten what it was supposed to look like.
The Corner Store
Fouad’s hands were flat on the counter.
True Dead
The ping came in the third hour of daywatch.
The Canvas
The rock cut through her gloves at the third handhold.
I Made It Right
The steam wand hisses.
Station Seven
The air tastes like ammonia and bleach and something underneath both.
Deconstruction
The box says forty-two pieces. I’ve counted three times
Free-Fall Forward
She whispered it aloud. Her voice. Lower, gruffer.
The Voicemail
Forever now. Somehow that made it matter less.