April 1, 2021.
Prose:
Iris, putting on a vest, says, "That means it's your turn, Cameron. Are you ready?"
And he is, to the extent that he barely hears her. "Right," he says, the world turning black-and-white, "Right."
The squeak of the gate, hesitant, almost careful. Big steps, one by one, a heavy gait. Tall. Flip-flops. In March? No. Sandals. More hesitation. Could still turn back. But the figure doesn't, and stands at the door.
The problem with trouble is that it's often polite enough to knock.
Iris, putting on a vest, says, "That means it's your turn, Cameron. Are you ready?"
And he is, to the extent that he barely hears her. "Right," he says, the world turning black-and-white, "Right."
The squeak of the gate, hesitant, almost careful. Big steps, one by one, a heavy gait. Tall. Flip-flops. In March? No. Sandals. More hesitation. Could still turn back. But the figure doesn't, and stands at the door.
The problem with trouble is that it's often polite enough to knock.
