A Ride Home
You only realize someone held you up when you start walking without them. Calgary’s cold that winter bit like the stray dog from my childhood, its jaws clamped and shaking until the marrow ached. One evening, the temperature plunged to negative forty. That kind of cold wasn’t weather. It was blood sport—a visceral image of a rusty hook sinking, puncturing, and ripping out. That kind of hurt.…














