He couldn’t get ahold of Lance, despite trying four times before he went to bed. Bradley numbed himself with a glass of wine and a superhero film, slept in, and tried to write his article on Hexabee Honey for two straight hours without any luck. He called every hour Saturday morning until he got so concerned he couldn’t reach Lance and so frustrated he couldn’t even get the first sentence on his piece that he decided he needed some air.
His apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from downtown, and the temperature was perfect even if the sky was overcast. He tugged on shirt and jeans and tried to clear his mind as he walked down stretches of weedy sidewalk. It was eerily quiet out until he reached the river, something he’d noticed more recently, like kids weren’t playing anymore. Maybe it was
