Pain. It was never a stranger. When they were still together, Freda once said he not only had a high tolerance for it, he seemed to embrace it. Her comment was made after he crashed his motorcycle on a rural backroad and pushed the bike a mile home with a freshly broken arm to grab a few beers before she could take him to the hospital. He didn’t even bother calling or texting ahead to let her know.

“I wouldn’t call it suicide.” Not a trace of morbidity or fear was discernible in his response. “I’d call it ‘letting go.’”

It’s tempting to say it didn’t happen. That it couldn’t have happened. That it was actually the beer and whiskey telling a tale. And I’d be OK with that.

Not that I’m prone to seeing imaginary things when I’m a bit lit. It’s just that in this case, no one else would believe it, anyway.

When I got to school and learned I was the primary suspect for lynching the cat, I was simultaneously disheartened and perplexed.

Joan poked her head in his condo office. “Is it possible…”

“No.” He didn’t even turn away from the computer.

Bella emerged from the late twilight, into the hotel lobby, like a sufficiently recovered she-wolf entering an open dell from a dim forest of lost time. Although it could not be observed that she was still in the process of healing, one thing was certain: she was not looking for prey. She merely wanted to survive the rendezvous.

Riding a bike is easy. Until you try doing it with an armful of groceries seeking escape from a torn paper bag — while eating a cookie.