David Abrams books

Fobbit

They smelled of sweat, unwashed uniforms, and, if one strained hard enough, the undermusk of blood that always reminded Abe of sniffing warm pennies.He ducked to a crouch—down to the level of the Ruffles potato chips—so he wouldn’t be seen by Lumley, Zeildorf, and Miller. Abe was wearing his now-...