There’s nowhere more unsafe than the back of an ambulance. . .
They pitched their Good News. He wasn’t buying it. Not on the worst day of his life, not ever. . .
Rachel warmed her hands on the cup at my kitchen table. “Daniel came over last night,” she said. “You call the cops?” . . .
Now that R.I.P knew how to achieve his goal, he just had to find the means. So he got into his clunker of a car, which was parked on one of Detroit’s countless seedy, run-down streets littered with as many broken streetlamps as broken dreams . . .
Bobo’s nickname was all it took to get his reputation started . . .
I used to photograph the ruin. The historic Packard Plant had become my forty-acre inspiration in the heart of Detroit. What was once the grandest and most industrious automotive facility of the early twentieth century had corroded into a sprawling wasteland, and I captured it all through my camera lens . . .
I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. It wasn’t the librarian . . .
He wanted to talk, and you know me—I’m no psychic. I didn’t know what he was thinking, and Jerry didn’t come out and say he was going to crawl into a garbage bag and off himself . . .