Sometimes, we just want (or need) to remember, even the painful stuff.
Rain pelted down, as darkness descended over the town.
Derek and Kylie had been searching since Sunday and were not about to give up, even if the police were.
He doesn’t want to be found, the constable said. He’s sick, they insisted.
For five days they’d searched his usual hideouts. Surely he wouldn’t come here. Forty miserable years he’d spent in this factory. The building was a hazard then, and now—rotten floors, falling timbers…. In two days, they were coming to demolish it. Finally.
A raspy voice rose from the back room.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
Esther stopped at the foot of the stairs and thumped her cane on the concrete.
“What the hell am I doing?” Her voice grated in unison with the rusty gate.
She stopped again on the top landing and wheezed a long breath.
“Fifty-three years,” she muttered.
In the doorway across the little alley, a chrome walker appeared in the doorway pushed by a hunched man in a gray tattered sweater and plaid slippers.
“Well, gosh damn.” He squinted. “Esther? Is that you?”
“Still living in a dump, I see.”
“And you haven’t changed a bit, sis.”
“Nor you, brother.”