11
In the basement of my apartment building, I remove the buttons and zippers from my coat and pants before burning the clothes with my gloves in the furnace. It takes longer than I expected to reduce it all to ash, and all the while I worry I’m making a grave mistake. You can go to the cops about a body you found right up until you start destroying evidence. But having started down this path, I drop the buttons and zippers down a storm grate on my way to the bodega down the street for a bottle of ginger ale, a bag of ice, and a microwave dinner. The temperature plunged with the sun, and I’m shivering in my old Army jacket when I get back to the lobby with the grocery bag swinging from the raw bare hand that isn’t stuffed in a pocket. I’m gonna need new gloves.
The phone rings while I’m
