Chapter Thirty
In The Hour of My Death Call Me
St. SebastianThe letter in his back pocket might as well be an ingot of molten iron burning through his clothes.
It was waiting for him on the mat when he walked into his house this morning, and he nearly pounced on it when he saw it, he nearly tore into it with his teeth, that’s how much he needed what was inside. But then when he picked it up to open it, he found that his fingers would not cooperate. They wouldn’t tear at the corner, they wouldn’t slide under the flap. They wouldn’t rip the side from top to bottom to retrieve the letter inside.
At first he thought it was because he wanted to savor the anticipation, that it was a sort of paternity Christmas morning, and he needed to enjoy that subtle, electric space between almost-havi
