Brendan leaned his back against the balcony railing and sat scribbling random thoughts onto a piece of torn out notebook paper, using his knee as a solid surface. He wrote about the breakfast he’d had that morning–poached eggs with a side of Texas toast and a plump red grapefruit–and about the man he’d splattered across the Denny’s parking lot with his Dodge Ram pickup minutes afterward. Then, he thought more about the grapefruit and its pulpy red flesh and its juices, and he stood from his seat and he turned, and he looked over the balcony.


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