Changed my prints, moved eleven times, learned to blend in with the crowd. But there’s always something coming, no matter how good you get at looking over your shoulder. In my front pocket, I worry the rosary of two copper-tipped bullets.
At 42ND St., a man with a scar scrawled across his forehead approaches. As he nears, his fog-gray eyes meet mine. I’m dead certain I can hear him ticking.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I reassure myself, “bombs don’t tick.”
Appears in Pink X-Ray.
