Damon Torrance. He sat in a cushioned chair, leaning his head back with his eyes closed, droplets of water glistening down his neck, arms, and torso—bare since he only wore a towel around his waist. He pinched a cigarette between his fingers and brought it to his lips, the ashen end burning orange as he inhaled. Then, just as I remembered, he blew it out slowly, letting it drift up instead of out, looking more like fog than smoke as it dissipated in the air above him.
