"So you are a writer and a poet!" he says angrily, and stands up like he’s gonna punch me.
As they waited, they heard the telltale whistle of a mortar round — faint at first, but growing louder with every second.
“Let’s spark this shit.”
Dylan and I used to be inseparable. We spent long afternoons outside trying to plot how we’d get back inside where the air conditioning and videogames were.