August 16
Dillian Street
Tate finished his day at STC and found himself on Dillian Street around seven in the evening. Damn, the day was beautiful. No, it was more than beautiful. It was unbelievably stunning, a masterpiece. The best he had seen in weeks with blue-and-white swirling clouds in the heavens, a proper sun in the sky, only eighty degrees with some warm light. A feel-so-good wind blew against the backs of his hands, arms, cheeks, and the humidity was low. He couldn’t have asked for a better day. Never in his lifetime.
Head down, thumbing through a bunch of useless texts on his cellphone, he passed Mr. Persimmon’s Little Bookshop. Since he had half of Robert Riley’s Blood to Wishes read, there was no reason to stop in the bookshop yet to discuss the piece. Plus, he didn’t need
