He wakes with a veil of fading orange sunset falling over his face. Slowly, he raises a hand, twisting it through the shards of light. There are no callouses. No dry cracks of peeling skin. It is ... [+]
The name on the chart, Winnaker, tightened my throat. Funny how, decades later, a word can evoke a memory that evokes a physical response. It's a good thing the evil woman's name hadn't been Smith. But – Winnaker – it couldn't be her, my high school English teacher. She'd be long dead now and criticizing Lucifer for his diction in front of his exultant minions. I asked the medical student to present the patient."Ms. Winnaker is a seventy-six-year-old woman with a history of breast cancer who was admitted yesterday with severe headache, nausea and vomiting." He rocked back and forth on stiff le