Nestlings

by Nat Cassidy

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.

“Ugh, fuck that place.” Reid’s usual prework jingle.

Stopping whatever he was doing, breaking his concentration, to pick up the phone and play polite with some oblivious idiot, answer some pointless question, filled him with a red, swirling feeling that compounded on itself with every call.

“When we speak of creatures like the vampire,” Isaac continued, “we speak of metaphors. We give them little Achilles’ heels so we can feel better, but tell me: What vulnerabilities does grief have? How would a hero defeat that monster? He can’t, can he?”