RemedyBy Chelsea Marie Ballard
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Rudy always asked rhetorical questions. Are you sure? Did you mean that? Can I kiss you?
He meant well. He was sweeter than the chocolates we stole from the kitchens. Sweeter than the apple pies the cooks made, their fingers calloused and dried from the years of servitude.
Sometimes, that sweetness grated on me.
Though I would never say that to his beautiful face. His face remained pristine and unmarked despite the time he’d spent as a pigeon.
Most of the time, masters marked their pigeons, often on their faces. The brands showed ownership and status. The more important the master, the more pigeons he owned, scattered throughout the city, as they delivered messages.
But Rudy’s face was gracefully unmarred. Smooth, ol
