Chapter 11 · free to read
Twelve bags. Every one of them the same weight, the same age, and none of them held together with tape.
I had walked past that wall for eight minutes before I understood what I was looking at.
Four nights a month. Two thousand a night. A polo shirt with another camp's name on the chest, and my coach wearing it with his back straight.
Eight months. Thirty-one receipts. He had been buying them with somebody else's money since before the fuse board went, and stacking the paper under the incense so I would not go looking.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.