It had been two years since I had a drink, and life was looking up. I was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, taking care of my grandfather. . .
It hadn’t been half an hour since they settled in when Winston started up . . .
The sun is only just getting tired, sliding itself down behind the row of houses on the other side of Missouri. The sky is gray and restless. “Might be one of them derechos tonight . . .”
Every South London borough has a murder mile. A stab alley. A no-man’s land patrolled by kids steeled with knives . . .
At 8:55 am, I was waiting for her. Like a vocation. As any man with a woman will confirm—waiting on her is a gig. Maybe me more than most . . .
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