Fiction | July 22, 2013

I was just two years old when he was killed and so have no memories of my own. Perhaps faint traces and sensations. A strong arm around my shoulders. Skin the color of sanded oak. An air of competence, a thoughtful manner.

This story is not currently available online.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.