In his absence, Bob’s world was unalterably changed—torn up and rearranged.
At first, I only hear it when I get up to pee at night, and it seems to come from the exhaust vent.
The pictures on our bedroom wall each contain at least one memory—a captured spirit or ghost, if you will.
“How long do you want to live?” Bob asks over a steaming bowl of fried cabbage
Something was up at the Bluebird house, and Bob aimed to find out what.