The Receptionist Handed Me a Vendor Badge at My Own Sister’s Engagement Party – Updated Stories

a photograph—creased, old, clearly photocopied from something classified.

It’s a picture of me. Age twelve. Holding a rifle nearly as tall as I am. Standing next to a man whose face is blacked out.

On the back, in my father’s handwriting, are six words.

I read them, and my knees buckle.

Cain catches my arm. “Collins. What did he write?”

I can’t speak. Because continue reading …