The light dripping out of the few remaining lit windows coagulated in the humidity. From the playground, Rachael watched as the houses went dark. The small bag at her feet didn’t move at all and shadows turned to wax against everything they touched. Unlit porches and the bricks buckled in the sidewalks like crowded teeth and the weatherworn all shined with night . . .
Bullets zoomed past him in every direction. Detective Crosby ducked behind a barrel in an alleyway near the warehouse. He crouched low—his pistol gripped tight . . .
The airport was abuzz with travelers. After a year of performing for audiences who shouted “yes” to their Haitian music, Pappyon, Neg Mawan, Yatande and Zilibo—known as The Haitian Cats—were going on vacation . . .
The pain was an explosion of red at the base of his skull. His mouth was bitter, like burnt coal. Ernesto Dela Cruz slowly opened his eyes. He had to, he wasn’t dead. Yet . . .
I am sitting in Row A, Seat 1, dressed in a double-breasted dark oxford gray suit, a plain white shirt, and a dark blue silk tie . . .
You might think that she was a monster, but she really wasn’t . . .
7:30am, Okay; coffee, laundry, then walk . . .
We saw him running. Down, down. From the mountain, across tracks, across highway, State Route 111, Southern California, right there alongside the Salton Sea. Salton Sea. Why is it named so? . . .