By Steven Stowell

Sean’s bedroom door was open just a sliver; a thread of warm light peaked out, framed by the shadows of the upstairs hall. Nudging open the door, I found Sean sitting on the floor, leaning his bare shoulders against the side of his bed, facing away from me. He contemplated something held in his hands, blocked by the corner of the bed—a book or a magazine, perhaps. His room was filled with the sweetly sour smell of sleep.

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