“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread, And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.” No one lives in a shoe. That’s just what the children call it. The building curves inward in a way that doesn’t feel right. Hallways narrow toward the ends. Rooms taper off like something was trying to make space where there wasn’t any. The youngest are kept at the “toe.” The older ones, what few there are, closer to the “heel.” It’s not official terminology. But it sticks. The woman assigned to the ward isn’t as old as she looks. Forty, maybe. Fifty at most. Hard to tell under the weight of it all. Too many children. Not enough staff. Not enough food. Not enough patience left in the world. She has charts. Protocols. A schedule that says what happens and when. Morning: broth. Afternoon: quiet time. Evening: correction. They don’t call it whipping anymore. Not out loud. But the marks tell their o...
It was as good a town as any for semi-retirement. On the surface, Linden looked quiet. But like most small towns, it buzzed with characters. The sheriff was known as Beer Belly - “Beer” for short - and he answered to Judge Pee Wee, a man so fond of drinking he required a police escort more often than not. By nightfall, I wasn’t new anymore. I hadn’t introduced myself. I didn’t have to. Somewhere between unloading my bags and walking into town, I’d already been named, placed, understood. New fella from up north. That was enough. Privacy wasn’t exactly the local currency. Neither was surprise. Not anymore. There was no bar, but the gas station did double duty. Picnic tables out front for beer, gossip, and weather reports. Shopping options were limited: a Food King, a video store, the B&H diner, The Rusty Hook if you wanted catfish—and Crazy Fay’s, where you could buy Confederate memorabilia and black velvet Elvis art in the same transaction without anyone batting an eye. ...