He sat with his legs dangling off the end of his bed, brushing a strand of curly hair out of his only eye. He had a mechanical pencil in one hand, a spiral-bound notebook secured by the other. He touched the tip of the lead down to his paper, and he began to write.
We all know of heaven and hell, whether we believe in them or not. Most at least know of purgatory. I guess that’s how you could describe this place. Time goes by, things change, but we all stay the same. I came here in 1979--
“What are you doing?” said a voice coming up behind him- a woman’s voice, marked by a distinctive Southern twang.