Three Miles Past: Stories

William returned to his beard, stopping with just a mustache for a bit—his father’s, silver the farther it got from his mouth—then going fast over it, deep enough that, near the lip on the left side, the razor burn he could already feel welled up into tiny points of blood. There was blood on his sleeve, now, from William’s hand. A blood sacrifice, to lubricate those doors that shouldn’t open. And again, the contents finally clunking down to the floor.