Wren set the computer down on the floor beside him. He was shocked about many things. The first was that Rufus obviously had a capacity for writing. Wren was no judge of quality, but the words he read had telegraphed pain, had showed, rather than told, the anguish of being caught up in a force beyond one’s control. Why wasn’t Rufus using this talent to make his living instead of doing what he was doing? If this memoir, if that’s what it could be called, was actually true, Rufus had had more than a dead-end job. He was white collar, a creative type, but probably making some serious cash, at least by Wren’s standards. Enough to live on comfortably enough, anyway.
Had Rufus hit bottom?
Had he burned bridges at the job he talked about blowing off? Had that failure led to others? Was that how
