At home, when he stepped out of the car, the ceiling light popped on. Across the backseast lay a wet swath of blood. He was lucky he hadn't been stopped. He closed the door and went and fetched a pot of water and spent a half hour and two of his best rags scrubbing the upholstery, telling himself it was paltry sacrifice. It was a miracle, really, how much blood the body could lose and still go on. He knelt and dug in the seams, getting it under his fingernails, but some must have seeped through and been absorbed by the stuffing. Though none of his passengers complained, for weeks, whenever it rained, Brand could smell it.
- Stewart O'Nan, City of Secrets, pp.16-17
No comments:
Post a Comment