13 WOLFIEWhen Connor walks through the door of our storefront on Wednesday morning, I hardly recognize the man.
First of all, he’s forty minutes late, which is entirely out of character. Tardiness has never been Connor’s style—first, because he rides his motorcycle everywhere, meaning that he can weave through all the traffic on Lake Shore Drive and handily beat any of us to work, bars, anywhere we’re meeting up.
Second, the guy looks like a ghost, and it’s not just the pale, haunted look on his face. His hair is a mess, and I’d put money down that he didn’t shave today, his overgrown stubble creeping down the front of his throat. No way am I letting this bastard wander into neck-beard territory. Somebody needs an intervention.
“Did somebody just dig you out of your grave?”
Connor does
