[From the Backlog] First Date

The pain catches him mid-lift. Sharp, sudden, deep beneath his ribs, stopping him cold with drywall balanced on his knee. Mark stays there, bent at the waist, waiting for the burn to fade. Around him the crew keeps working with the usual morning racket of nail guns, radio chatter, and the scrape of boots on concrete. The ache recedes slowly, leaving him…

Snack time is my personal purgatory. Twenty-three four-year-olds, twenty-three juice boxes, twenty-three chances for tears when somebody gets the wrong flavor. It’s like managing a miniature stock exchange where the only commodities are grapes, crackers, and a very limited supply of string cheese.

I grip the voting stone hard enough that its sharp edges bite into my palm, its surface gritty with the sweat of my hand. My heart slams against my ribs like a fist pounding to escape. Beside me, another juror breathes heavily, stale wine on his breath, whispering urgently, “Convict him. The city’s suffered enough.” His breath is hot against my cheek, s…