Night-Time is Always the Worst: Ch. 4

Kriever didn’t like public trans, and insisted on driving his old Sting Ray everywhere. He glanced over to the passenger seat, where she sat with his coat still over her shoulders. “Which way, doll?” he asked. The rain had eased up, for now...

Night-Time is Always the Worst: Ch. 2

The asthmatic death rattle of the air-scrubber was a comfortable sound, a beacon home in the crushing waves of the street.  It had guided him home every night now for eight years to the same drafty building and the same putrid stairs, and the same motherless little girl at the top who made it all worthwhile.  Clara was eleven and all that came with it.  Her father would give his life to save hers.