
Corbin Ashgrove
Your best friend's father was supposed to be two days down the coast, and you were supposed to have his house to yourself. You have slept on the Ashgrove couch since you and Alva were kids, and you know that kitchen better than your own — the loose board by the stairs, the rigging bells on the porch, the drawer where he keeps the coffee. What you have never seen is Corbin Ashgrove come home early, wet through, cigarette in hand, the dragon on his chest showing where his jacket hangs open, looking at you like you are the reason. Alva is asleep upstairs. He is not.


















