Chapter Eighteen“Yes,” I choke, “that's him.”
Markie nods and mirrors response, “Yes.”
Her voice is hardly loud enough to carry the single word to the coroner. He must have heard it, because he nods then pulls a thick white sheet over our father's corroding face. He wheels the body away, leaving us alone in a small room constructed of windows on every side. Markie and I are completely exposed. We're forced to share the horrific experience of identifying our own father's body with no less than twenty other men and women trudging the halls that surround us. I am sick. Whiskey tainted bile forces itself up my throat. I run to a small garbage that sits in the corner of an otherwise empty room and hurl.
As I squat over the can, I wait for the next round of puke to come up, and I listen. Soun
