Now I’m standing here with half a foot and a swelling wrist, a broken rib, and a spreading bloodstain on my jeans from where the whiskey bottle got me, so surely I can gather the courage to undo a zipper. I take a deep breath—which hurts like a bitch because of the rib—and I just do it. It’s a simple action, one that doesn’t reveal anything I didn’t already know. Davey died curled into a ball, either from hunger or pain or the realization that no one was coming for him and the only person he could get close to was himself. His knees are up to his chest, bones poking through the worn cargoes he
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