thepurplegelpen

It was 11:47 p.m. when Sarah’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. Half-asleep, she groaned, reached for it, and saw the name: “Mom.”

She ambled down the dark sidewalk, her long trench coat billowing like a flag on a pole. It was cold. But not too cold. Too cold, contrary to popular belief, isn’t productive weather. No one worked nearly as they should.

The man in the suit wasn’t okay. He was by all means, not okay. And he wasn’t going to pretend that he was. He had been shifting between the worlds far too much.