Our car lies half-overturned in the ditch. The smell of oil lingers in the night air. Will is crying, his small voice wracked by sobs. The sound pierces me. Do something, Penny. Get up. Move.
Writer and Editor
Writer and Editor
Our car lies half-overturned in the ditch. The smell of oil lingers in the night air. Will is crying, his small voice wracked by sobs. The sound pierces me. Do something, Penny. Get up. Move.
Georgia Atkin 