There’d been a time, a couple of years ago, that Bobby’s Diner would be jam-packed during the noon hour.
The hammer fell in an arrhythmic pulse, like an old man’s heart, skipping a punch each time the chisel it hit dropped another inch into the device.
I never cared much about cars as a kid—never cared much about anything Dad liked.
The city shimmered as though it were under an ocean instead of in a barren desert.
Shea Ashcroft stepped from a carriage into the low-lit cul-de-sac as a mongrel lifted its door knocker of a head from a garbage pile.
The man standing on the porch that night seemed like an ordinary gentrifier at first glance: young and tall and artfully unshaven.