My Apartment Burned Down. My Parents Said, “Not Our Problem.” Then the Fire Investigator Called.

to find out. Don’t write again.

I folded it carefully, put it in my desk drawer. Then I blocked the prison’s incoming mail through my post office—professional, clean, final.

That evening, Jason came over for dinner. We cooked together in my tiny kitchen—pasta with vegetables, nothing fancy. Music played softly. My new guitar leaned against the wall.

It continue reading …