The paper couldn’t come out any slower. It had already jammed twice. “Come on,” he muttered. He took a deep breath and turned away from it for a moment. The large east window showed the glory of morning. Soft-hued light spread over the horizon, melting into the dark sky like watercolor. Damien walked to the window, pressing his hands against the glass, looking over the town from the eighth floor of the tallest—and newest—building in Marlo. It seemed cradled, trees and rivers swaddling it on all sides. Safe. Pure. Beautiful. “Hey.” Damien turned. Bruce stood behind him, a grim look on his face. “Hey, Bruce. You’re in early.” “Yeah.” “I’m about to drop dead.” Bruce stared at him, his face strangely absent of emotion. “Is there something you want to say to me?” “Say to you?” “Yeah. Say to me.” “No, what’s on your mind?” “I just believe that if there’s something you want to say to someone, you should say it to them.” “I believe that also,”
