Hope

The tavern smells of smoke and wet earth, same as before, only this time the patrons look friendlier. I sit across from Keith in a booth in the back corner, the one tucked behind the old stone hearth. My fingers curl around a chipped mug of cider I haven’t touched. Keith looks like a statue carved out of tension.

His back is a steel rod and his jaw is set too tightly. I'm surprised his molars don't crack under the force.

“You're going to break that glass,” I say, nodding at the tumbler he’s white knuckling.

His jaw twitches. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

He doesn’t look at me....