Later that day, it was the dream he would remember. In the dead hours between midnight and dawn, it crept up on him like a child playing hide-and-seek.
“They say it’s like slicing through warm butter, when you cut into young flesh.”
For a second, the counselor was still. “And is it?” she asked.
“No, that’s complete rubbish.”
That’ll Leave A Mark was spray-painted in garish Day-Glo pink across the front of a seventeenth-century headstone.
Some years later, on a tugboat in the Gulf of Mexico, Joe Coughlin’s feet were placed in a tub of cement.
I’m going to be killed because of a family called the Gilpatricks.