the dog mooching by my desk. Small paws and pound survivor guilt in that wan look. A soft pink line, not even severe enough to warrant ragged, all that I can see of her cancer.
words words words. Not tumbling but certainly more than stumbling. Out.
he realised, as if surprised, that he doesn’t know the first thing about what his son is interested in. Not, he hastened, that he didn’t know what his son was interested in – music and games, deeply – but that he knows nothing about them.