We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

In Cape Haven a shade beneath perfect might as well have been black.

Milton was hairy. Thick swirls sprouted from every inch of him, the kind of man who had to shave to his eyeline three times a day in case a passing zookeeper shot him with a tranquilizer dart.

She wanted to cry, though knew if she did the grief would settle right there in her chest, not let her breathe when she needed strength most.