Maybe already asleep with a book on her chest.

He’d be home soon, in his warm apartment, with a warm woman curled up and waiting on his couch or in his bed. You’re not twenty-five anymore, his body bitched, but he ignored it. Not defeated, but he’d taken a couple hard shots in his final boxing match, one to the temple and one to the chin, and his neck was sore, like whiplash. Salt and gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled onto the street, South Boston all but abandoned this time of night, save for the odd car in the distance and scattered drinkers making their way home with clumsy, nervous steps along the slick sidewalks.įlynn was beat, literally. The streets were crusted with brown-gray ice and these flurries would do jack to cover it over. It was late February, the charm of New England winter gone with the abandoned skeletons of Christmas trees weeks before. Sick as he was of shoveling, he almost wished for a final storm. Still, he didn’t bother with the heater-it was a quick drive. He could feel frost in his hair and an ache growling in his wrists and fingers. It had to be ten degrees out, and just the short walk from the bar’s exit to the curb had chilled his sweat and stiffened his spent muscles. Flynn climbed into his car just after one on Saturday night, waking the grumpy engine on the third crank.

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