About this story
He talks instead of leaving, drawing out the drugs, the stimulants, the cliff edge you were measuring, and walks you back to his lodging for cold mutton and an open window. There, a heaviness falls that is not sleep — and by lamplight, Isbister watches you go terribly still.
How it opens
Low tide exposed black caves beneath the path from Boscastle.
The afternoon sun struck the cove, but six sleepless nights had emptied it of warmth.
IsbisterHot weather for the season, though that hardly explains this place.
IsbisterForgive the commonplace; I knew no gentler way to interrupt.
Choose
I have not slept at all for six nights.
The heat is easier to endure than my own thoughts.