Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
He looked up, his pale blue eyes clear under the yellow light of the ceiling bulb, his Midwestern drawl slow and deliberate.
“It is just a little dust in my lungs from the old coal heaters, nothing for you to fret over,” he said.
He reached out with his trembling hand to touch the paper bag, but his fingers slipped, sliding the heavy brown prescription bag across the table until it rested against the empty bread box.
At eight fifteen the next morning, Gary, a senior who always carried a heavy brass key fob, was kicking the bottom of locker 114. The metal door was jammed tight, the gray paint chipped where his heavy winter boots had repeatedly struck the latch.
The locker hallway was cold, with thin frost still clinging to the high windows near the ceiling.
Gary jangled his keys, cursing under his breath as several underclassmen squeezed past him to avoid the noise.
I stood near the drinking fountain with my strap tight over my shoulder, watching the heavy brass key fob swing in his hand.
