Card

We limped back into the city. I couldn’t wait
to take a shower. As per usual, the mountain
was obliterated in cloud. I wasn’t enthusiastic
about any more excursions. Mr Steinberg suffered
quietly, but clearly in considerable pain. He’d
missed taking his medications. We crawled
through heavy traffic, heading for the apartment.
When we reached home, there was an ornate
visiting card perched on the mat. It was addressed
to Mr Steinberg. He turned it over in his leathery
hands. It was from Aaron, Mr Steinberg’s eldest
son.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

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