Hop in the car, radio playing “When You’re Strange” by The Doors. Run uptown, gas, deli and postoffice. Seven or eight cars in line at the pumps, I get in before anyone moves because they’re asleep at the wheel, I suppose. First up at the deli, and no one gets in my way at the P.O. I’m out and back home in twenty minutes.
Is there a look on my face that warns them? Does it show?
But I can’t be normal. Nothing is right now.
Thunder rumbles as I’m making dinner. Or is that me, as well…
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology