It was on the third floor of a building just off of Hickory Street and Congress Avenue. An alley cut through the center of the block, and entrance to the office was gained by climbing up a rickety set of steps that were precariously attached to the back of the building. A landing led into a thin hallway, capturing the humidity of the day and transforming it into mold and mildew, to be added to a well-established population of spores that smelled like they had been in the building since the beginning of time. Josiah quickly found the door marked “Woodrell S. Cranston, Esq., Attorney at Law.” The paint was fresh, but the door looked like it had served a long line of tenants. There was no telling how old the building was, but lawyers and the like came and went from the capital city like flies to shit, always moving in and moving out, depending on the political climate and the state of daily affairs. A distorted reflection of himself on the frosted glass-paned door caught Josiah’s attention, but he was only momentarily conscious of his own physical being.
What do You think about The Coyote Tracker (2012)?
