the summer seemed to go on forever.

Say what you will about Drake Connors, but boy did he know how to pick his target.

“Our” is such a simple little word; it’s three letters long, an unassuming modifier implying possession by two or more parties, or I guess just one if you’re Pope Francis or the Queen of England.

That summer was the kind of summer that made you itch to get out of your skin, to take off your clothes and stand in the rain, to shower in the blast of a fireman’s hose until your body was shredded down to a skeleton.