Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Amber: yea so what.

Ben: Above head, one story higher, up a flight of stairs and down the long, bruised wooden corridor Jake lay. He's in a bedridden comatose, his body in a curled ball, and his arms drawn in tightly. Sounds of moaning come from the door. He's whimpering like a child in pain, calling out, "Water...I need water." I hear the cry and climb the stairs, carefully negotiating the stained wood, where small knots are and visible signs of age too. I imagine the possibility of stomach pyrotechnics, and so I ready myself, like a soldier before battle, tightening my jaw and then taking sustaining gulps. "Water," he cried out; it was like watching and hearing a wounded soldier-mate, with outstretched arms, pleading to be pulled from the wreckage. I got him his water. And then bombs came again.

Morgan: Movie time.

Rachel: Laurie came all the way from Kansas to go hiking boot shopping.

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