Chris woke up with a rattle. He was in the Chevelle. It was evening. He couldn’t tell what time it was, but either way, he was confused. He rolled the window down. Seagulls were flying carelessly across the darkening sky, their white wings outstretched, yawping out cries of freedom.
His cell phone said he had a voicemail. A…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Michael Mohr's Sincere American Writing to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.