The Wistful Asylum
The vial is empty, Mr. Thorne, and the boy is delirious. Mrs. Gable said this while her fingers, thick and knuckled with arthritis, tightened around the glass stopper. She held the cylinder up to the harsh fluorescent light of the nurses’ station, tilting it so the liquid inside caught the glare. It was not water, nor was it whiskey, though it swirled with the same pale, sickly clarity. It was...
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