I found her upstairs in the dimmed waiting area outside of the obstetrics ward. Somewhere, I could hear a baby crying. Standing at a floor length window, still wearing her band jacket, Lynn looked down on the orange pools of light in the hospital parking lot. “Lynn,” I said. I expected her to be crying like her mother downstairs. She wasn’t. Even at the age of sixteen, she seemed sapped and old, as if this latest tragedy had simply exhausted whatever was left of her feelings. In her jeans and tennis shoes she looked like an adult dressed as a child. “You okay, kid?” I said. My voice shook more than I wanted it to. My wife was downstairs, broken and mangled, unrecognizable. I tried to focus on the girl in front of me instead. She stood so close to the glass her breaths fogged it and then disappeared like glimpses of a ghost. She shook her head as if someone was trying to convince her of something absurd.
What do You think about Saint Homicide (Single Shot)?
