Sometimes, late at night, when the Chicago wind rattles the storm windows and the distant horns of the freight trains drift across the rooftops from the industrial yards, I think back to the red oaks of Horner Park.
I hear the clatter of the signet ring against the plastic flute. I see the smug, cruel amusement in Samantha’s eyes as she leaned across the white tablecloth, surrounded by family, confident that her victim would swallow the poison and smile.
“How does it feel to be useless?”
I sit back in my chair, open my textbook, and take a slow, deep breath of clean, unencumbered air.
It feels like freedom.
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