Saturday, 8 December 2007

Day 8

The cookies were from his mother. Fin had received them in the mail two days ago, for his birthday, today. His mother would have made them some time last week. Some time before the heart attack. Fin had brought them with him to the funeral, tucked in the inner pocket of his heavy coat, just there, against his shirt against his skin. The car was empty, Fiona and the girls had gone home hours before.

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