Penpals
A gunshot or a backfire?
Didn’t matter.
The odds were fifty-fifty in a Las Vegas ghetto east of the glittery Strip.
All that mattered was that it caused Chris Blankenship to contemplate the time projected across the ceiling by his alarm clock.
1:03 AM.
...and then...
1:04 AM.
...slowly followed by...
1:05 AM.
Sweat built up across every inch of his body. A brief wave of nausea threatened to send him head-first into the toilet, so he bolted up and rubbed his face. He reached across the nightstand to turn on the lamp, knocking over an empty Dos Equis bottle in the process. It thumped onto the carpet and rolled beneath his short twin bed.
Chris didn’t have to man the flat top grill or fry station until swing-shift, but sleep was a fading prospect.
He placed his feet on the
