He’s chosen one of the coffee places in the city that Candice talks about.
The match flared orange and momentarily suffused crisp December air with an oddly soothing aroma of sulfur and smoke.
He reads at his work bench in the garage.
I was eight years old when Yuri Zhilin floated away.
Miri, I’m on my way.
Adrian’s name is typed across the front of the white envelope, but there’s no address and no stamp.