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Can you hear them? The helicopters?
I'm in New York, no need for words now
We sit in silence
You look me in the eye directly
You met me, I think it's Wednesday
The evening
(PJ Harvey & Thom Yorke — This Mess We're In)
“ …and all I can do now is hope that death… death…”
Her arms fell limp, her head tilted back. The sobs were loud enough to bring every neighbour running, so Charles had to come down the stairs and put his arms around her.
He slammed the car door and started toward the roadside diner. He’d called Francis himself, and it had been a trial—first, the Brigham and Women’s Hospital (Charles had chosen the most expensive one on purpose, and hadn’t been wrong) told him over the phone that Mr Abernathy had been discharged a few days prior. But the nurse was very kind and gave him Mrs Abernathy’s number.
At first Charles didn’t understand. He gave a little awkward laugh and asked her to repeat it. When it sank in, his cheeks went crimson and the receiver groaned against his work-roughened palm.
Even her voice made Mrs Abernathy seem beautiful, though just a bit vacant. Charles barely managed a minute with her, despite rehearsing the conversation for nearly three hours. He might as well not have bothered—the conversation folded in on itself and died.
Her name was Priscilla, as it turned out, and Priscilla promised to let Francis know that Charles would be waiting just outside Boston, at a place called Molly’s Diner.
Charles remembered, with vivid shame, that he’d said something completely idiotic just before hanging up:
“There’s this little place, with a green roof. Fran—Mr Abernathy’ll know it. We used to go sometimes. It’s run by a couple of Irish guys and—”
“Oh, I see,” said Priscilla. “Right. And… who are you, exactly?”
“My name’s Charles. Charles Macaulay. Francis and I—we used to be friends.”
That was it. The end of it.
The letter had been short, but clear enough, even if Francis couldn’t help indulging himself with a lofty comparison between their relationship and that of Verlaine and Rimbaud. Charles hadn’t even tried to figure out who was meant to be who. For some reason, the ridiculous letter had cheered him up—as if it had been written by someone who, at least for now, wasn’t planning to die.
Francis had taken a booth by the window and sat staring at the menu. His eyes, despite the hour, were hidden behind oversized sunglasses, but the bandages were harder to disguise—white edges peeking out from beneath the sleeves of a baggy Lake Tahoe sweatshirt. The sort of thing you’d expect to find in a thrift shop, not draped over Mr Abernathy.
Charles had meant to say something else entirely, something measured, maybe even kind. But as soon as he was close enough, his tongue took off on its own.
“My God. How’d it go?”
Francis understood at once. He flinched at the voice, but recovered quickly and shifted over on the vinyl seat.
“About how you’d expect,” he said, sliding the glasses up onto his head. “I just never imagined there’d be that much blood in the old man.”
Once they’d ordered, Francis returned to Shakespeare.
“Richard’s taking English now, by the way.”
“Mhm.”
Charles tried to eat, but something about the food resisted him. Still, it was all easier than he’d feared. On the drive up, he’d grown irrationally self-conscious about his three-day stubble, but Francis—always so perfectly turned out—had shown up in that ragged sweatshirt, as if to meet him halfway. And now he kept stealing glances from under those long lashes.
The freckles were darker than before, his eyes ringed with shadows, and the sharpness of his cheeks gave him a half-starved look. But it was still Francis. The same old Francis.
“Why here?”
Yes. Definitely the same old Francis.
“I don’t know,” said Charles, pouring dressing over his salad. “It was the first place I thought of.”
Francis snorted.
They’d eaten here a few times, on those drives when Francis would drag Charles out into the countryside for some obscure errand. One night he’d even tried to fuck him in the men’s room. Charles had flown into a rage when he found Francis’s hand in his pants and had struck him across the face.
They’d had a brutal row all the way back to Boston and only made up after pulling into a petrol station somewhere near the city line. Made up, yes—but then proceeded to ignore each other at college for so long that Camilla eventually orchestrated a peace talk in the dining hall.
Neither of them could ever say no to her.
She had often played the diplomat between them, though Charles knew—had always known—that she understood more than she let on. Camilla always knew more than she let on.
“I heard you got married.”
Francis changed at once. He began rummaging through his old leather bag, kicking one leg out to the side. Charles noticed the Chuks—new, expensive, clearly—but still just Converse.
Something had happened to Mr Abernathy. Something that made him stop wearing his Bally's.
“Here.” Francis slammed a photograph down on the table. “Feast your eyes.”
Charles pulled it toward him.
A pretty blonde—had to be Priscilla.
“Lucky man,” he said with a small smile, catching the shift in Francis’s face.
“Lucky? You spoke to her on the phone, didn’t you? Got a sense of the towering intellect? The radiant charm?”
“No one forced you,” said Charles.
Francis gasped.
“My grandpa said he’d cut me off.”
“So get a job.”
“You get a job.”
“I have a job.”
“Oh right,” Francis scowled, dragging his empty glass around the table. “Charles Macaulay, professional dishwasher.”
“If that's all, I’m going back to Texas.”
Francis dropped the act at once and reached across the table. The sweatshirt slipped back, revealing the bandages, and his long fingers brushed Charles’s clenched hand.
“Wait. I overreacted. And anyway—I wanted to apologise. I meant it in the letter, but since that whole plan fell apart…”
Charles picked at a hangnail on his thumb.
“The letter?”
“Yeah,” said Francis, after a pause. “I wrote, I’m sorry for how things turned out. And I’m sorry I did things to you that you didn’t want.”
The petrol station. That mess of a night. Francis’s summer place, with everyone supposedly asleep—though not Camilla. No, she hadn’t been asleep.
“So that’s what that Verlaine-and-Rimbaud nonsense was about,” said Charles, rubbing at his eyes. “Whatever. It’s in the past.”
The waitress came by to see if they needed anything else. Francis shook his head and told her not to split the bill.
“Wanna catch a movie?”
Charles saw it coming, but still needed a moment.
“I haven’t been to the movies in... God knows how long.”
“Exactly. There’s a horror marathon just down the road. We’ll get popcorn and—”
“How’d you cut?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Francis fell quiet. The restless fingers that had been twisting a cigarette stilled. Five minutes earlier, Charles had lit it for him—Francis’s right hand couldn’t manage the lighter.
The silence thickened until it pressed against them both, and Charles finally cracked.
“I always knew you were a coward.”
A smile slashed across Francis’s gaunt face—and then he hit him. Just barely managed to clench his fist in time.
The punch wasn’t much. Awkward, untrained. But Francis was still a man, and Charles’s jaw began to ache on contact. He laughed, stepped back.
“Show me.”
Francis refused to touch the bandages with dirty hands, so Charles poured vodka over them instead—his emergency bottle, stashed in the jacket pocket.
He unwound the dressing slowly, like a Christmas present.
There were three scars. Two on the left arm. It looked like he’d run out of strength—or maybe just technique—before he could do proper damage to the right.
All three cuts ran lengthwise.
“Now,” Francis whispered, “put it back the way it was.”
Charles swallowed the tightness in his throat.
“They’re permanent,” he said, uncertain. “You did a number on yourself. Scars are forever.”
“A lot of what we did is forever,” Francis said.
Charles finished rewrapping the hand and, for some reason, still hadn’t let go. He just sat there, holding that thin wrist in his own palms.
“Alright,” he said, shaking his head. “What were the films again?”
The theatre showing A Nightmare on Elm Street was nearly empty. A couple of teenagers had climbed to the back row with very specific intentions, and closer to the screen sat an old woman holding a folded umbrella in her lap.
Francis and Charles settled in around the middle. Almost immediately, Francis began noisily unwrapping a box of Milk Duds. Charles stirred the popcorn bucket with idle fingers.
As soon as the lights dimmed, there was a rustle from the back row. Francis finally stuffed his sunglasses into his bag.
“I haven’t watched a horror movie in ages,” he whispered, taking a sip of Mr Pibb. “Last one might’ve been Children of the Corn, I think.”
Charles snorted, deliberately loud.
This was probably how it was meant to feel: awkward as hell. Brushing hands over popcorn, pretending not to hear each other’s burps, whispering sharp little shhs at the kids making out behind them.
“Good score,” Charles said, mouth still full. On-screen, a blonde girl was running down some corridor. A sheep appeared out of nowhere, and Francis grabbed Charles’s arm.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
Then the heroine’s boyfriend appeared and Francis immediately perked up.
Charles nudged him with a knee.
“You like him?”
The teenagers behind them had begun kissing.
“Well…”
“The blonde one looks like your lovely bride.”
“Knock it off.”
“I’m serious. It’s a pity, really.”
“You don’t even know her,” Francis hissed. “She’s unbearable. And she wants to have sex with me…”
Charles burst out laughing and spilled soda all down his shirt. The old woman turned to glare at them in disapproval.
“She’s your wife, genius. Of course she wants you to, I don’t know, actually function—”
So what's happening, an orgy or something? asked one of the characters on screen.
Maybe a funeral, you dickhead, replied another.
They both looked down into the popcorn bucket.
“Not funny,” Francis whispered again. “I’ve been making up excuses for weeks. Or slipping her sleeping pills, like that guy in Lolita…”
“You’re insane.”
“I don’t want to sleep with her.”
Charles found the flask in his jacket pocket.
He timed the drink perfectly—right when the blonde started dying—and finished off the last of the vodka in one go.
Francis watched from the corner of his eye. The scene with the slashes had him visibly tense, his fingers digging absent-mindedly through the popcorn.
“I think the mum knows something,” Charles said, nodding towards the screen. “I don’t like her face.”
“I think so too.”
Hey, no running in the halls!
Charles smirked and rubbed at his knee. Francis, squinting, biting his index finger, watched the teenagers running around like it meant something.
“Worried they’ll kill off the pretty boy?” Charles leaned in, the half-empty popcorn bucket crackling sadly between them.
“And what if I am?”
“I’m right here.” Charles wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. The letter, the night after he read it, the long drive to Boston, the diner—everything blurred into one long groan. Or maybe that was just the teenagers making out in the back row. “You can hold my hand, if you want.”
They both laughed at once, just as Nancy looked into the mirror and said, I look twenty years old…
The old woman turned around for the second—or maybe fifth—time.
“You look fifty, easy,” Charles muttered, nudging him with his knee again.
“You with that stubble look about seventy.”
Charles edged closer and rubbed his cheek against Francis’s. Francis squirmed in his seat.
“Cut it out.”
The kiss was clumsy, half-hearted. Charles barely brushed his lips against Francis’s—dry, hesitant, almost childlike. They missed an entire funeral scene on screen, fumbling like kids, but eventually Francis got tired of it: he pushed at Charles’s jaw, opened his mouth to him. Letting him know how much he’d missed it.
He tasted of soda and sweet popcorn, with a sharp undertone of vodka. Charles pressed a hand to Francis’s chest. Francis pulled back, licked his lips and stared at the screen.
“Do kids really have this much sex in high school…?”
Charles didn’t answer. His own sex life had started in high school too—but Francis, for all his apparent indifference to the Macaulay family’s secrets, never liked talking about that kind of thing.
“I dunno. Didn’t you?”
“No.” Francis shifted in his seat. “First time was freshman year.”
“Tell me something,” Charles moved too, brushing popcorn from his trousers. “You ever been with a woman?”
“Not once.”
“You sure?”
Francis looked at him like he was genuinely offended.
“I didn’t sleep with your sister,” he said crisply. A chill slid down Charles’s spine.
“I know. I’d have killed you.”
He held the soda can up to his mouth, but there wasn’t a drop left. He crushed it in one hand with a loud metallic groan. The old woman, finally fed up with turning around, now twitched in quiet outrage.
“What about Richard?” Charles asked, chin propped on his palm.
“Didn’t get the chance,” Francis shrugged. “He was always such a riot. I remember once he was driving me somewhere, and he just said, out of the blue, that he didn’t like me. Or something like that.”
“So he turned you down.” Charles crossed one leg over the other.
“He lied. I know how guys act when they like me.”
Another chill. Charles fixed his eyes on the screen, pretending interest. What was happening now—another boyfriend dead? That left just the girl.
He hoped Francis hadn’t caught him staring.
All the way to Boston, Charles had been kicking himself for coming. He hadn’t thought of Francis as even a friend in months, let alone anything more. Though about six months back, something had happened—something shameful. After a shift, a Mexican coworker—new dad, just had a baby—poured him some tequila.
It ended with Charles, miraculously avoiding any wreck, asking a young hitchhiker to go down on him just past the state line.
And for every cursed minute until he came, Charles kept his eyes shut tight so the kid’s dark-brown head wouldn’t distract him from the fantasy.
Those flickers of lust were rare, buried beneath a studied indifference. Just the faint numbness in his fingertips when news filtered in—another Molotov lobbed into another gay bar somewhere in Boston.
But the moment he saw Francis in the diner, the bitterness slid away, and something like tenderness crept in. Quiet, reluctant, drawn towards the bandaged wrists.
“What’s with the getup?” Charles rasped, trying to change the subject. He cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“Priscilla liked the way I dressed. Said I had great taste. For a man.”
“Hah. And she didn’t suspect a thing.”
“I told you—she’s thick as a plank. Her compliments got so unbearable I started dressing like this on purpose, after the hospital.”
“Looks good on you. Especially Chuks.”
Francis nudged him lightly. And smiled—maybe for the first time that evening.
The old woman had finally had enough. While Nancy was trying to take down Freddy, she was steadily climbing the steps towards their row.
What Charles first took for a pistol turned out to be a bizarrely oversized torch—but it was too late. He had already grabbed Francis by the front of his shirt and shoved him to the floor, into the gap between the seats.
“Are you nuts?” Francis muttered from below.
“You boys are awfully loud,” the woman said. “Try to keep it down.”
“We will,” Charles managed. “You gave us quite the scare, ma’am.”
A pale scene lit up the screen. The old woman’s face came into focus—thin lips, carelessly lined with raspberry lipstick, bunched in the folds around her mouth.
And then—darkness again.
Outside the cinema they smoked. Francis kept badmouthing his wife, and Charles even found himself going along with it. The flashlight incident had sobered him up quite a bit, so when Francis leaned against him, his first instinct was to pull away.
And what was the second?
Francis exhaled through clenched teeth as he felt a hand wrap around his neck. There was no mood for gentleness.
Charles pressed his feet against the window crank, while Francis rubbed somewhere on his chest. Then he slid lower, lying back, his cheek brushing the fabric near the fly of Charles’s trousers.
“I’m almost sober,” Charles smiled, swallowing hard, betraying himself. “I’m not going to come.”
But no one was listening. Francis pulled the zip down, fumbled with his underwear, sighing irritably. Charles threw his head back and closed his eyes.
“Enough already.”
The warmth of Francis’ mouth was infuriating, and just a few long, wet movements later, Francis pulled away triumphantly. He moved his hand to the base, then withdrew his hands completely.
Charles barely opened his eyes—to watch how his hard cock slipped behind his cheek and to see Francis squint, his damp lashes sticking together.
“You’re right,” Francis said suddenly, just as Charles began to move his hips. “Stop.”
“You son of a bitch,” Charles laughed hoarsely. Francis tried to sit up, but was grabbed by the shoulders and pushed back down. “Finish.”
“No. You said you couldn’t.”
“With your hand?” Charles bargained.
“Nope. Jerk off yourself, smarty.”
His cock was rock hard, and Charles, knowing the stakes, decided to push them both further.
“No wonder you survived. You never finish anything.”
Francis grabbed the collar of Charles’s work shirt and shook him, banging him against the seat. He ended up on top, but it wasn’t lustful rage—it was something far darker.
“Come on,” Charles said. He needed a moment to shift the mood, to turn Francis’s temper. “Fuck me. While I’m sober. You always wanted it.”
Francis clenched his teeth and leaned forward, aggressively kissing Charles’s neck. Then he stopped, quickly yanking off his sweatshirt and t-shirt.
“You’re so skinny,” Charles muttered, sharply turning his head toward the glove compartment, eyes squeezed shut.
Francis wrestled with his trousers.
“What, don’t like it? Serves you right.”
Without breaking eye contact, he licked his fingers.
That wasn’t enough, and the first movement sent pain shooting through them both: one jerked and hit his head on the ceiling, the other cursed and smacked the first on the arse.
“What, don’t like it?” Charles asked. Francis rocked on him, rubbing his bruised head.
Charles pushed harder, trying to pull Francis closer into him, but Francis stubbornly kept coming back, banging his head on the car roof, screaming—though it wasn’t clear if it was the rough sex or the fact that he still wanted to die.
“I hope,” Francis’s voice was thick with tears and frustration, “I really hope you only had protected sex with your drunkard lady.”
“Hope so,” Charles said very quietly. He’d finally found a way to calm and dominate: running his fingers over Francis’s damp cheek and behind his ear.
“You close? My knees hurt.” Francis jerked his head and shook off Charles’s hand.
Charles propped himself up on his elbows and started pushing Francis away. With a sigh, Francis released his cock and settled beside him, turning the focus back to himself.
“Don’t make a mess here,” Charles warned hopelessly, though he was touching himself and didn’t believe either of them would be neat. “The car’s not mine.”
“Mmm,” came the reply. Francis twitched twice, then relaxed. Charles caught up to him after a long, agonising minute.
The pack of tissues rustled softly in the silence as they passed it back and forth. Charles decided there couldn’t have been a worse—and at the same time, perfect—moment. So he said:
“That’s when she saw the letter. My drunkard lady.”
Francis shifted, a question in his eyes.
“At first, I asked her to throw it away. Thought it was from—”
“Camilla wrote to you general delivery, I know.”
“Once or twice. I didn’t read a single letter. And this time wasn’t going to be any different. But she liked your handwriting, so she opened it. Started reading it out loud while I was helping the neighbour fix his shoddy shack.”
“Let me guess,” a genuine smile flickered on Francis’s face. “And she paused because she couldn’t read?”
“No. She paused because she was crying.”
Francis seemed to shrink a little.
“At first, I didn’t get what you’d scribbled there. But she just kept crying. Said that if you were my friend, I needed to come. To make it in time for the funeral at least. I still didn’t get it then, but I dropped my hammer when she said ‘funeral’. And here I am.”
“Well, you’re just in time.”
Charles smirked.
“I knew my sister would get here first. So I stalled: didn’t leave the next day, hung around motels. Who else?”
“Richard.”
“Richard,” Charles repeated quietly. “Of course.”
Outside, a gentle rain began to patter down.
“Remember when you wrecked my car?” Francis asked. “Got caught in the downpour but didn’t put the roof up.”
“I remember.”
They sat a little longer, listening to the rain. Francis stroked the bandage on his left arm.
“Anyway,” Charles ran his fingers through his hair as the silence grew unbearable, “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“I hate moments like this,” Francis said loudly. “Like we’ll never see each other again.”
“I think that’s exactly how it is.”
Charles wanted to get out of the car and end it all, but those slender fingers were still fiddling with the bandage, and he couldn’t help himself—he placed his hand over and squeezed.
“Stop, stop fiddling.”
“Why?”
“You’ll make it bleed.”
“Why won’t we see each other?”
Charles sighed and summoned the courage to say his sister’s name.
“I broke it off with Camilla, broke off everything back in Hampden. You’re the only one left.”
“Oh God.”
“And I really am glad you’re okay. We were friends.”
“We just had sex.”
“And that’s it. No more. Nothing.”
Francis sighed deeply and opened the door. Charles followed him out. Sparse drops cooled their flushed faces pleasantly.
Francis walked ahead, arms folded over his chest, still looking like a character from a Jane Austen novel.
“Stop—I’m not chasing after you.”
Francis stopped, spun sharply.
“You think living in a dump is an answer? Washing dishes and helping the neighbour fix his shack—is that progress?”
“You tried to kill yourself. You thought that was progress too.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Yes, Francis. Compared to what came before, it’s progress. And I’ll say it a third time: I’m glad you’re alive, but—”
“Enough,” Francis waved his hand nervously, unconsciously. “Enough about that, how many times…”
All the movie-style, heart-wrenching dialogue pushed Charles forward to start something.
And to finish something.
Their first truly sober kiss happened right here, in the rain, under a bleak, cracked sky.
Francis pressed his hands against Charles’s chest, while Charles stroked the bandages on his wrists.
When he pulled away, Francis still kept his eyes closed, leaning forward. He cracked one eye open.
“What if with tongue...? Well, since we’re never going to…”
“I just can’t stand you,” Charles laughed, pulling the thin body closer. “Come on, let’s put something on.”
Laughing, they flicked through the radio stations: Charles switching, Francis humming or shaking his head. They settled on a station playing Sting and The Police.
“Ugh,” Francis grunted. “Find some jazz?”
“You’ll manage,” Charles nudged him lightly. “Get out.”
“What’s the song about?” Francis asked, swaying slightly.
“Some kind of lunatic,” Charles stepped closer. “A bloke who won’t let go of what’s no longer his.”
They danced right where the road ended and silence began, moving awkwardly, but there was a strange kind of beauty in that clumsiness — as if they were remembering how they’d done this once before, in someone else’s young bodies.
Francis laughed, resting his head on Charles’s offered shoulder, and said something foolish that, in any other circumstances, would have seemed empty. Charles silently guided him around in a circle, hands at his waist, turning just enough to avoid another kiss.
But it didn’t work — Francis rubbed his nose against Charles’s and, like a child, pecked him on the lips. Charles answered, deepening the kiss, making it more mature. The prickly stubble scratched Francis’s skin, and he winced.
“It’s such a bloody shame,” Charles said, fingers gliding over Francis’s hollow cheeks, “that this beauty ended up with you. Say hi to the wife for me.”
“Maybe I’ll kill her,” Francis muttered. “Chuck a toaster in her bath.”
“You’d better go down on her instead,” Charles half-joked. “She’ll like that, and for a while, she might leave you be.”
“That was a free tip, right?”
“No,” Charles took a step back, and Francis didn’t follow.
Their conversation dragged on, as if neither of them could bring themselves to hang up the phone.
Closer to the city, Charles stopped for petrol, and at the station Francis bought himself a bun. He stood there, leaning against the wet car, chewing slowly.
“So, you going back to Texas?”
Charles shrugged.
“That’s where my life is. And a woman.”
Francis bit into the bun with a sharp edge of bitterness, then suddenly laughed.
“You know, Richard was from Plano… But there’s no Plano in California. Only in Texas.”
“I always suspected our Richard was a bloody liar.”
They chuckled quietly, each lost in his own thoughts.
Charles finished his cigarette and nodded towards the car, but Francis kept chewing.
“I’m not going.”
“Come on.”
“Yeah, I am not. I’ll walk… then catch a lift or rent a car.”
“I don’t mind giving you a lift. I’m heading south from Boston straight away.”
“Go now,” Francis crumpled the bun’s wrapper in his hand and wiped his mouth with the back of his palm.
Seeing Francis in the rearview mirror hit Charles like a punch to the gut. At first, he even thought someone had fired a shot—his ears were ringing and his stomach twisted tight.
Francis didn’t run after the car or clutch at his hands in despair; he just stood by the phone booth, leaning on it with his hands behind his back like a schoolboy, staring down at his soaked Chuks. His leather bag swung at his hip.
The highway stretched ahead, splitting into three ugly, scar-like roads.
Charles missed the signs and took the far-right lane. A moving truck tried to overtake—once, twice—but Charles stubbornly refused to let it pass.
In his mind, he was still there, at the phone booth, kissing Francis’s battered hands, hearing strangers’ laboured gasps, craving more and more, endlessly.
In his thoughts, they were all still there.
Richard was still on his first day at college, his sister in Henry’s arms, and Francis… presumably still sitting in his room with Charles, drinking expensive Scotch and kissing.
Bun was probably still asleep somewhere in the library. His chest rose and fell raggedly—he’d wake if someone dropped a book. For some reason, Charles imagined Henry sitting silently beside him.
After a few miles, Charles pulled over. A young guy in a cap came running, waving his arms.
“Are you going further down the 95?” he asked, sticking his head inside the car.
Charles noticed the bracelets, the neat nails, the gum bubble in his mouth.
“No,” Charles replied. “I’m heading west.”
“Oh,” the guy said, disappointed. “Well, take care.”
As the guy walked away, tapping the roof with a fist in frustration, Charles accelerated and merged back onto the 95, driving on.
Two scars on the left, one on the right.
The letter still lay in the glove compartment.
“…and all I can do is hope that death… death… will help me forget how much I truly love you. Cheerliy Francis.”
Her arms fell limp, her head tilted back. The sobs were loud enough to bring every neighbour running, so Charles had to come down the stairs and put his arms around her.
She crumpled the letter in her hand, on the verge of tearing it apart.
“Well, well,” Charles soothed her. The paper crackled threateningly. At some point, she lost herself and raised the letter to her eyes instead of a handkerchief. Charles gripped her hand firmly. “Give it to me, baby.”
“Throw it away. It’s awful.”
“Just give it to me.”
Her huge, tear-streaked eyes looked up at him—half afraid, half suspicious.
“Of course. I’ll throw it away, of course. Just give it to me. Please.”
A sob.
“I said: give it to me. Now.”
Her fist weakened, and the scrap of paper tumbled to the ground.
Charles held the puppy they’d kindly taken in last week in his gaze.
But the crumpled ball of paper barely interested the pup. It was stalking dirty sparrows bathing in the dust.