The Wistful Silence
The rain hits the window of the police station like a handful of gravel. It is a cold, gray Tuesday in November. You are sitting in the interview room. The chair is plastic. It is hard against your back. You have been here for three hours. Your hands are in your lap. They are still. You keep them still. The door opens. It is your son. He is twenty years old. He wears a dark jacket. He looks...
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