My father handed me to the rain 20 years ago and told everyone I was checking badges at a desk. I never corrected him, until the district magistrate looked at my collar and dropped his fork.
[PART 2] “I do.” The words left my mouth soft and quiet. But the impact was physical. Arthur was still standing at rigid attention, his arms snapped to his sides, his face the color of old ash. His chest was rising and falling in short, shallow bursts. The heavy silver fork he’d dropped sat abandoned…
