30
Skald’s desperate bawling is worse than heartbreak. It’s not the soul-shattering devastation of losing your beloved spouse or child. He’s having the kind of breakdown you get in combat vets who created all those orphans thinking it was to save their country, but figured out too late it was really about boosting stock prices. I wind up with the guy sobbing into my stomach, one arm around his back and one stroking his bristly hair, murmuring meaningless comforting words that eventually degenerate into soothing coos and hums.
At least he’s had a bath in the last day. The switchyard grease and grime has kind of sunk into the guy, but that’s okay. I don’t like the smells of rust and oil, but they’re honest stinks from honest work. I’ll take them over perfumed ancestral wealth any day.
Wil
