Fiction | August 02, 2016

Midmorning, too early for a beer, but Matt still nodded, because there it was, Tom’s right hand was broken, Kelly’s information had been accurate. Tom’s own house added further testimony against the best friend that Matt had ever known. The hardwood floors were shiny but not swept, with dust bunnies in the corners. A lawn chair rested where the couch had once stood, a cardboard box had been pressed into service as a coffee table, and a medium-sized flat-screen TV was sitting on the floor under the dark spot on the wall where Tom’s much larger TV had once been mounted. The evidence was clear: his friend’s wife had seized all the furniture and left Tom to nurse his broken hand all by himself.

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