He Poured Beer Down My Jacket And Demanded My Call Sign Until He Realized Who I Really Was

memory, pulling folders from shelves he hadn’t opened in years.

“Donnelly,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer. I was tired, soaked in beer that was drying stiff and cold along my forearm, and already regretting that my name had entered the room at all. Names have weight. Once you set them down somewhere, they don’t always go back where you left them.

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