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This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
Last night, Connor said, “There’s a garden in my mind.”
It takes about an hour to remember come morning. Hank’s in his car, the world tilted because he’s still a little drunk, and the whispered words come floating up through the slush of his hangover. Hank feels such a strong sense of foreboding that he has to pull over into a parking lot. But the memory is amber-hued, whisky-soaked, and Hank can’t remember when, where, or why Connor might have said this, or what he said before or after, or what it possibly could have meant.
A post-midnight confession to a drunk is the kind of secret that eats a man, that begs to be said aloud yet never acknowledged. And Connor— naive, forthright, young, and painfully transparent when emotions are involved— Connor has this kind of secret.