It’s a cold winter night. The cars on the freeway come and go like waves. The lights from the George Washington Bridge reflect off the Hudson River like the shine in glassy eyes.

Pepe knew it was a matter of time before he caught his own disease from the mines. That did not bother him. His father used to tell him that dying was inevitable and something must bring death to a man’s doorstep. His parents were hacked down like trees on their way to the farm three years ago. A militia group had been prowling the forest.

She toured The Maze looking for laughs. She stopped in front of a video of a large teenage girl wearing a short skirt who didn’t realize a camera was videotaping her large granny underwear as she climbed up the stairs.

I can hear him cracking his knuckles in the pocket of his peacoat, a nervous habit when he is annoyed. Old Belinda reappears and smiles at him. Then the tiniest smirk appears on his face as he steps back.

The jacket and trousers this man wore were dusty, but unmistakably blue. Lincoln Federal Army blue. The hand that clutched blades of grass was black.