WET SEASON
by Dennis Etchison
MADDEN WATCHED the black crowd on the other side of the moving gelatin wall, as rainwater poured down in translucent sheets over the windshield. He did not listen to the patternless tattoo. Instead he followed with his eyes the group of black shadows floating past the car.
“I…I shouldn’t have made you come, Lorie,” he said at last to the black figure next to him.
She turned from the window, her lidded eyes not disapproving. “That’s enough, Jim. I wouldn’t have felt right, otherwise.”
Madden pressed his chin to his chest, squeezing his eyelids shut. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, and his fingers came away moist.
Again his wife spoke, very quietly. “You…were very close to her, I suppose. James, I only wish there were something…Forgive me if I’m
