I am going to tell you about the dog I killed, because if I don't, nobody will, and that is the worst thing about dying alone in a wrecked car on a wet road outside Barstow -- not the dying, not th...
Let me start honest: I shot a blind man's guide dog through the head on a rainy Tuesday in November 1947. Two dollars of ammo. Three seconds of work. The old man wasn't even home. His name was Harold Finch. He was seventy-two, retired from the postal service, and had been blind since the Korean War -- a bullet through both lungs that killed his wife and left him staring at a wall that wasn't...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2 Views 0 Vista previa