The Lawn Worker Heard Crying in My Basement and I Knew Something Was Wrong

for the gallery every Tuesday at seven, kissed my cheek, reminded me to take my vitamins.

At the bottom of the stairs I stopped and listened. Nothing. Just the furnace hum and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. I opened the studio door and flipped on the light.

Everything looked normal. The worktable stretched across the center, tools arranged continue reading …