It was settled. Her heart had turned into a furry creature. The doctors couldn’t tell her how it happened, but it was the only conclusion they reached. They couldn’t agree on what kind of animal (thing? organism?) her heart was.
When Katie thought of the family home, it was the red gates that she remembered most clearly. Large, imposing, and adorned with golden studs glinting in the sunshine, Katie remembered the sound they made as they creaked open.
Alone in the dark hours of morning, I computer-track my son’s progress in the Kona Ironman, a thin blue line edging across a screen. Checking emails, I learn my nephew will drive me later to the hospital of his rural boyhood.