It’s Friday night, and she’s going nowhere near those drug-dealing sons of bitches. She forces herself to vomit up an ice-cream cone. If she walks past Burholme Park, of course he’ll be there, right there among them. It’s not just that she expected more— she banked her whole life on him having a little class. Over at Burholme, they’ve got splendor going in the grass. Nothing can bring back the casual hours. Though it’s past dark, kids are still driving putts. The guys wonder whether they’ll be hit.
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