Wound in dirty sheets, Logan lay in the dark, wedged into the c***k where the sloped ceiling met the wall. He didn"t know how he got from the jail to his house. His brain was muddled, and he had ended up here, exhausted.
A night passed, a morning, another night, perhaps, he wasn’t sure, because all that rolled through his head were film clips on an endless loop: his father’s body pitching over, a close-up of his neck, the pulse beating under a tent of pink skin. Logan thrashed onto his stomach to shake off the loop, but it never stopped playing, and the sheets only tangled tighter, his father’s body pressed down into the mud. Logan torqued his body onto his back, trying to dislodge the image. Had his father been struck on the head and died instantly? Or did he fight, inhale mud, and choke
