Then It Would Be Raining

“Every once in a while the man I fell in love with starting that snowy April morning on University Avenue looks up at me.”

Steve Fox

The 2020 Montana Fiction Prize Winner

I am not a cutter, I just happen to cut myself a lot. It’s not a personal issue, I don’t think. What I need, is to be more mindful. More mindful in the kitchen. But it’s been hard now, with Mitch like this. Plus, I have lots of distractions going on in my head. A busy place, the insides of my head. I also have a lot of dull knives. Dull kitchen knives are dangerous. Which reminds me… I should sharpen those knives. And get cutting. Vegetables…  Kids will be home soon. Also, I need a band-aid.

The fresh layer of snow in the yard below our bedroom window bounces a silver moonlight blue. Silent and powerful. Tainted only by the McCallans’ Christmas display across the street. Red, blue, green, the house announces, this is the outline our windows, blink, blink. Red, blue, green, this is the perimeter of our front door, it proclaims, blink, blink. Red, blue, green.

Christmas lights in March. 

Mitch asleep on the bed behind me breathes hard. Hard-er. Something going on in his head, too. Bad things, all of a sudden, all again. Screaming nightmares, every night now since last fall. Dreams I can’t sleep through and he can’t wake from in a place I could never, ever enter. Can’t tell me about them, he says. It’s very dark where he sleeps. 

During the day, he drifts away.  

Away from me, away. 

Away from us. 

Away, I fear, to stay.

I work at a place called Puente. Means ‘bridge’ in Spanish. It’s an organization dedicated to helping individuals with cognitive disabilities live more independently. Connect with and contribute to their community. Often these people—we call them clients—have physical impairments, too. I used to work the floor more than I do now, all hands-on with our crew to aid clients in walking or in tasks requiring more manual dexterity. Using scissors, peeling vegetables, lacing shoes. Things like that. It’s challenging work. Some clients eventually catch on. Most don’t. 

But now I wear a skirt and heels and help run the place, make larger decisions for the greater good of the greater group. I still walk the floors, but mostly my work is on computers and telephones explaining to someone about a great opportunity to hire one of our clients for their menial labor deficits, and how much it won’t cost them. 

Clients. Our name for our damaged. 

I didn’t really know Mitch very well when we got married. Some couples come and go on and off for years until they’re finally sick enough of each other to get married. Not Mitch and me. Got married while we still burned for each other. Less than a year after we met at a bus stop in Madison. 

It was April and snowing these large sugar-cookie snowflakes. He looked at me looking up University Avenue, pulling at my bangs and gasping into a torrent of snow and said, “Mornin—nice day, eh?” He winked, the snow swirling like stars all around his black curls, and I said, “I spose though I sure wish it’d warm up justa bit.” 

“Yes,” he said, slowly, unloading a devastating smile. “Then it would be raining.” 

Today Mitch totes yet more boxes from our bedroom closet. “I had to forge your signature today,” I say, as he elbows by, clutching a heavy cardboard cube to his chest.

“Fine,” he says, not looking back. “You sign my name better than I do anyway, Bren.” He laughs, and opens the door to the cellar.

Sounds like something Mitch would normally say. And for a moment, I think it’s him again. That he’s back. Until he resurfaces to cower out of my way and begin taking down shirts from hangers, one at a time, and fold them up, destined for another box to be stored in the root cellar. It’s taken me a while to figure it out, but I just now realized that he’s moving down there, the root cellar.

The cuts, the old ones, now are mostly all healed. Enough of them run up and down my arms that I started reading about cutters. The psychology of cutting one’s own flesh. There’s a lot of counter-intuitive logic to cutters that makes perfectly good sense. Mostly boils down to matters of personal control, a coping mechanism. Some self-medicate with booze, others with knives. 

But like I said, I am not a cutter.

I don’t know what Mitch does during the day anymore. Climbs up from the root cellar every morning, eyes all glazed and crusty, scratches at himself, and leaves the house. No idea where he goes, what he does. I thought he liked his new career, software. He just decided one day he was done being a lawyer and went back to something he “used to poke at semi-legally.” So he bought some computer books and fiddled with his resume and got a job writing code for a software company. I thought he was happy, but why all the nightmares and screaming in his sleep? Why all these fresh cuts on my flesh?

This has been going on for weeks and weeks now. People giving me odd looks because I am starting to look desperate. Me, the one without the personal problem. No, I got no problem, I’m just married to one, I want to say. I want to write it down on index cards and hand them out to whoever looks at me like that. But the pen’s over an arm’s length away and that stupid effort to reach out for it seems a lot of work for me now. Just raising my eyelids can be too much. 

What time is it?

“Where’s the car?” I ask Mitch this morning. He came home sometime after I fell asleep reading to Carlie, and now the car’s nowhere in sight.

“Here,” he says, extending the keys, hunched over a laptop on the kitchen counter. Hi-def screen filled with code and gobbledegook. Meaningless to me, but rather upsetting to him, apparently. I don’t think he’s been to bed in days.

“Thanks. So, where’s the car?”

“Fuck,” he says to the computer. “Outside,” he says to me.

“Where outside?”

“In the street, Bren,” he says. He looks through and beyond me like I’m smoke. “The car’s parked outside, Bren,” he sighs. He blinks, eyes dried up. “Outside in the street.”

Jen came over. Mitch’s sister, from Boston. Boston, now, anyways. She’s a Sconnie, too, like Mitch. I asked her to come. Jen’s an empath—the real deal. Gets readings from a photo, a voice over the phone, watching a crowd in a bar, seeing a guy round the corner a block up the street. The chemistry of a person’s mental and emotional state emits an odor she can detect and interpret, easily. The way some read sheet music, she says. She sees dreams, the spills of broken love, shapeless, through brick walls.

We embraced. I didn’t have to say anything. She looked around the house as Mitch looked right through her on his way out. Jen nothing more than a lamp or a vase that’d always just been there like the trim around the windows. Maybe he knew she was coming the way she knew something was very wrong before she even got here. Sometimes I wonder if he’s more like her than he lets on.

“Panic,” Jen said, watching him walk and twitch and look through us. “In a profound panic.” 

She didn’t seem so surprised. She followed him down to the cellar and I could hear them talking a while. His voice rumbled low, then rose right as he was about to laugh, always with this new, otherly exuberance. She never shared in the laughter though, not that I could hear.

I am not the sort of person who throws things. I want to be… I do. I want to smash the fine china on the kitchen floor and drink bourbon straight from a bottle for days plunked into a corner while I pull shards from the bottoms of my bare feet. Pull them from my feet while drinking and listening to Mitch scream his head off in the cellar, where he lives now, down there. While I pluck, shard by shard, and will my way into his sleep to slice up whatever it is tearing him apart down there.

But I’m not the sort of person who throws things.

Jen is going to stay on a few days, she says. I look across the room at her, then at Mitch, leaning up against the wall, wearing that old, torn-up Badgers sweatshirt, pointer finger two knuckles up his nose. He removes it and starts to say something. Then his words stray and he stops speaking and puts his finger back up his nose. Jen, at his side, doesn’t react. 

Apparently we’re going to a ski resort this coming weekend.

I am drowning in dirt, dirt that drips. Drips on my face from a sky plowed up mud by a wedge of geese tearing the overhead terrain, dripping on me, a frog in a pot of water slowly brought to a boil, unwittingly dying in its own bath. Drowning in dry dirt inside droplets of raining mud.

We made dinner tonight, me and Jen. Managed not to cut myself. Haven’t since she got here. Set a place for Mitch, hoping he’d come up from the root cellar. For once. I pulled the plates from the cupboard, noisily but carefully, passing them one at a time to Jen. I have a memory of plates with room to breathe in there, of coffee cups unafraid of being sent over the edge.

Neighbors’ silverware in the drawer at my waist. Del, Diane, Will, Mags. Someone else, too. Don’t recall now, but Mom always said ya know ya live in a good neighborhood when half the silverware in there is someone else’s. Some of mine is out there, too. In others’ drawers. Except for the knives. Those stay right where they belong.

Mitch’s plate kept moving, without comment, around the table as Jen and I ate and the kids brawled and cried through dinner. First it was at his normal place, then the other side of the table as we cleared dinner, then at the breakfast counter by the sink in the island. Finally, when Mitch kept not coming, I put his plate back, closed up and away, back behind cupboard doors. Up and away, back in the dark. 

Jen touched my shoulder. 

I walked down into the root cellar yesterday while Mitch was out doing whatever. Just to see. Exact opposite of what I expected. Figured it’d be all squalor, him sleeping down there like in some storage cell on the edge of town, a slender varmint woven into a warren of piled heaps pushed aside just wide enough for him to traipse through and lie down in.

But it’s all in order. Cleaner than when we moved in, even. The stone walls plucked clean of cobwebs, ceiling joists and support beams wiped down and dusted. Floor’s been swept. Everything he took from our closet and boxed now stacked neatly, each piece of clothing hung smartly. There’s a set of drawers arranged from shoeboxes slipped inside an upright plastic bin. A drawer slides out deftly, where socks are folded with care, not balled up or pushed inside in wads. Towers of books, rising up like in-progress games of Jenga, straddle each end of an old sofa I’d forgotten about. Must be where he sleeps, sort of. Even the porcelain sink in the half-bath reflects a blinding white, and the chrome towel rack gleams. 

I stepped into the bath, leaned over the sink for a moment, and looked up at the limestone wall above the faucet where my reflection should have looked back at me. There was just emptiness of exposed stone. I looked down at my fingers resting on the edge of the sink, before that emptiness could pull me in.

This morning Mitch sits opposite me in the breakfast-express room at the hotel near the ski resort, wearing a dingy old nightshirt sporting smeared grease. His bony face twitches, slate-gray eyes sunken like two echoes. His eyes blink rapidly, one at a time. And if he’s shaved, it was days ago, the one side of his face. 

Jen’s doing laps down in the tepid pool. Her word. Said she’d eat an egg later.

In front of a faux fireplace, Mitch’s eyes are locked on some local morning newsy program, hosted by perky homecoming royalty from about ten years ago. A local chef introduces the hosts to shrimp and grits. Everyone knows who he is. Royalty smiling, tanned in March, talking loudly—nearly shrieking—clichés, scripted prompts. Eager to please their adoring studio audience. They laugh so easily for their springy star, Courtenay. No lines for great-looking-demure-homecoming king next to her. He hands Courtenay the occasional utensil or measuring cup, widening his eyes for the camera. I think I’m meant to swoon. Name of the show is Good Courtenay Morning. And Mitch is gobbling it up.

Shrimp and grits. The hosts rave, find the idea fascinating and amazing. As if their discovery was everyone else’s. And Good Courtenay Morning? There is nothing about this program that does not scream to Mitch Please hate me more than anything else I could think of. Normally, the name alone would make Mitch rant about it off and on again for days. 

A family clambers around the table beside ours, eyes all wide for what’s on the TV, the fresh snow, the staged fireplace. Our kids fall silent as an impossible number of children pull chairs around the table. Already I can tell all these kids combined will create less mess and make less noise than any one of ours. The coiffed father, seated in plaid L.L. Bean loungewear, straightens himself to answer a daughter.

“Well,” he says, loud enough for everyone’s attention, “I suppose Santa could come to the Ski Chalet today… But it’s March, sweetie.”

He gives her a sympathetic smile, reaches to cup her cheek.

A three or four-year-old girl with protuberant brown eyes and neatly mussed black hair looks up from the Yoplait she’s carefully peeled the aluminum foil lid from. She places the lid atop the saucer before her, yogurt-side up at twelve o’clock, next to a glass of juice, unspilled. She unfolds a napkin and flattens it on her lap. 

“Aww,” she pouts, raising a spoon.

“Santa?” Mitch snorts. “Santa? Santa’s busy, sweetheart! Saw him just last night, pan-handling on the sidewalk down in front of the bowling alley. Said he—”

“Mitch!” I protest, know that I can’t stop him. 

 “—Said he’s fallen on hard times!”

I can’t stop him. 

“Beggin for hand-outs, Santa suit all soiled.” He shakes his head, one eye twitching, then the other. “Jesus… Broken fingernails black and poking through these useless gloves, playing a guitar and harmonica and—” he pauses for a minute breath, then his focus lands on something about ninety miles beyond the horizon, “—singin these old Jim Morrison songs… you know… the poems. God,” Mitch says, voice breaking, as though he actually witnessed all this, “the guy utterly… reeked.”

Before anyone can react, Mitch leaps to his feet and points urgently down an imaginary roadway.

A couple of L.L. Bean child models turn their heads tentatively, in the direction he’s pointing.

“Down there,” he cries, looking at them, jabbing a finger at the air. “Down there! Prolly asleep… and brandy-sodden… bummin smokes… down there… right now!”

We are cruising aboard an airplane at forty thousand feet, speeding across the continent when someone kicks out the evac door over the wing. An silent roar sucks out the entire room with a deafening force that nearly pulls the ribbons of fake flames in the fireplace out into the cold along with it. 

Confused tears surge in the girl’s bulbous eyes. She is about to scream. Or giggle wildly. Hard to know with some kids. In normal times, ours would have squealed with delight. Her father opens his mouth, smug grin shattered, like he’s suddenly stepped, barefoot, into a pile of something warm and soft. And Courtenay’s spilled grits on her tits. 

Breakfast is over. 

Delphine, a fitness consultant, slinks across the street to our yard, skin-tight everything. Even her new plastic-surgered face looks crazy tight, facial dermis stretched completely to the epi.

Jen ties a shoe a few feet away, about to leave for a run. She looks up from her crouch.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmurs, straightening up. She pauses for a brief whiff to confirm. “Yep. Yer neighbor’s got some baaaad news, Bren.” 

She looks at me, says she, too, has got something to tell me… later. She flashes a significant nod and disappears in a poof, annoyingly lithe.

Del talks a while and finally I hear myself saying, “Well, what can I say, ya know? Mothers die. Mine died when she found out I wasn’t getting married just because I got knocked up like her. She was giddy, me all thin and gettin married not pregnant, Del, and she musta then just let herself stop fightin whatever ailed her, cuz she woke up dead the very next mornin. I’m sorry, Del. Mothers die. They just do.” 

I fold my arms and look at Del, then down the lane Jen disappeared from, my arms suddenly heavy, the one atop the other, dreading what she’s got for me.

Jen went back to Boston the next day. Told me about Mitch’s childhood while we stopped for a drink on the way to the airport. About all the abuse. Low-lights Mitch spared me, years of it. Like all the photos, and the man who made Mitch pose for them, year after year, summer after summer. About his prayers for a never-spring, and an always-rain.

I tried off and on again to get Mitch to a doctor, to consult professional help. Always got a calm, Heisman stiff-arm in refusal. Of course he thinks he’s fine, always looks at me like I’m the crazy one as he shrinks and coils away. 

Then yesterday he one-upped me, and had an accident, somewhere. I couldn’t get it outta him where. But he fell down and smashed his ribs. Six ribs, front and back, all staved in up and down the left side. ER visit became a two-day hospital stay that may turn into three or even four. I went to work the middle of Day Two, today, thinking I’d try to get caught up on what’s piled up, distract me from myself for a while. Mitch needed rest… blood in his urine. 

A nurse called as I drove, mentioned how dehydrated Mitch was. 

“Needs electrolytes,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

“Yes. He must get dehydrated often… Just have him drink some Gatorade when that happens next time,” she said, all cheery. “That’s where you get electrolytes.” 

“Gatorade,” I said. I think she could hear me frowning, so she spoke again before I could.

“Yes. Gatorade is for replenishing essential electrolytes and lost fluids—”

“From Gatorade,” I managed to say. Sounded like she was reading this to me. “Can’t I just feed him things that contain electrolytes?” I said. “I mean— Yer serious about the Gatorade? Have ya ever drank it,” I asked. “It’s disgusting. And fulla sugar. I mean— Yer a nurse… ya want him to get better, right?” 

I could hear her blank stare over the phone, her nurse fingers fluttering over a computer keyboard. Then she re-read to me what she said about the Gatorade.

“Yeah, I get it,” I said, and hung up and parked at Puente.

Gatorade. 

Almost as soon as I walked in to Puente today, one of our clients, a guy named Nathaniel—we happen to call him Prana—collapsed right in front of me. His knee caved and contorted at a horrible, berserk angle beneath the full mass of his body. I was still thinking about Mitch. No pierced organs… but should I have stayed at the hospital? Looked like he could sleep for a week, like those Russians living by that one uranium mine, sleeping five, six days on end. Hard to know now, especially with Mitch. Mitchell. Mitchell and his night and daymares, the way he moved from our bedroom into the basement, one box of clothes at a time, and the way he talks about some homeless guy living down in our cellar. Hairy hands, Mitch says, hairy hands like mine, he says, turning his hands over for you to see. Hirsute, he’ll tell nearly anyone who’ll listen.

I’m pretty sure he’s worn the same pair of pants every day now for over a month.

I watched the collapsing Prana’s fall and felt the anger and hate ignite within me again. Hate. The real thing. What this man, this locally respected man, this neighborhood Todd person with a thing for little boys did to Mitch, so many years ago. Years and years, a sickening level of abuse. And what it’s done to us now a generation later. And me, the oblivious frog, dying within the boiling storming planet around, slowly boiling to death and not seeing and not knowing. 

Small wonder he still loves the cold so. Sub-zero temps the only thing that make him feel safe. Ended each night’s prayers with…and a winter without end. Amen.

Del came back to our yard the next day, needed help making phone calls. I said of course I’d help, then remembered telling her about my mother’s glee at me getting married thin and not pregnant. I smiled, and Del pounced. 

“You think it’s funny?” she snapped, the way bossy women do. “My mom dead and me here with no support network and you all grinnin about it?”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t put into words why I was smiling. 

“No,” I said, defensive. “No, Del, no. I—”

“Then what?” she hissed.

I shook my head, said I’d be over in a little bit. And it wasn’t until later I realized I was smiling because I was just recalling my mom fondly. Mom was lovely, despite how much she drove me nuts. So I smiled. And I also think I kept smiling because in spite of Del I was just relieved to finally have something to smile about. 

I managed to cushion Prana’s fall, grabbing him from behind by the armpits, then tried to hoist him. Hike him up like a child, off that knee I heard pop like an old man’s. But Prana is a round, 250-pound man. Probably eighty, ninety pounds overweight. His body, despite the excruciating pain racing through it, remained flimsy and unwieldy. Like a sagging mattress you need to shove up a set of stairs.

My hands buried in Prana’s soggy armpits did take my mind off Mitch for a while, though. I slipped off my heels and called out for help. But first I asked a passer-by, a client guardian, to lend a hand.

“I—I don wanna lawsuit,” passer-by guy muttered, backing away from Prana and me. He opened his palms and raised his elbows.

“Just a towel,” I said. “Just grab a towel from over there.” I nodded at a table behind him. “And bring it over.” 

“No lawsuit, man,” he said, tripping away.

I stared, drenched hands still wedged deep up into Prana’s hot and squashy armpits, still attempting to gain some leverage and take more pressure off his blown knee. He continued to shriek. I raised my skirt and thrust a knee into his lower back and managed to lift him slightly. Prana groaned, relieved, his pulse a jackhammer ramming at my fingertips pressed beneath a heavy flesh-fold under his jawline. 

“Nathaniel,” I said, precise. “We are going to call 9-1-1. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Prana! Pra-na!” he gasped, nodding sweaty and fast.

“I know,” I said, quietly, nodding with him, “I know.”

I yelled. That got the attendants’ attention. I told them to call. They gaped. 

“Now!” 

They called. No-lawsuit guy vanished.

“It’s ok,” I said into Prana’s ear. The back of his sweaty head pressed against my blouse. “It’s ok. They’re coming,” I soothed, weakly. I lifted from under his arms and pried him up with my other knee, pulling him mostly on top of me. His shrieking subsided and he groaned again. His knee remained pinned and bent at a terrible angle beneath all his weight, already exploded, and I feared a stroke or worse. 

Then I was up there. Floating on the ceiling. Drifting in and amid promiscuous furry caterpillars. Weaving, blending, copulating, separating, reconnecting black and gray and brownish cream, pushed together within ceiling-tile gardens, forming patterns. Some of the patterns almost spelled out something. In English, maybe. Sodium, magnesium, chloride, potassium. Electrolytes. Some not. All a melded fuzzy gardeny blur above, Prana and I pressed together in a sweaty bulge below. 

Every once in a while the man I fell in love with starting that snowy April morning on University Avenue looks up at me. A few nights before his fall, he gave me that same look after he first said to me, Then it would be raining.

“So, ya headin to class?”

“Yup.”

“Me neither.” He looked down at his watch, enormous snowflakes still looping around his black curls. He smiled up at me again and said, “I’m thinkin it’s noon somewhere… Let’s hit the 608 for a tap and study up.”

He pointed to a tavern down the block over my shoulder. I stared at him.

“Whatcha workin on today?” he asked. 

“Today?” I said, more to myself than to him. “Uh… today it’s… Organic Chem.”

“Oh.”

“Know anything about it?”

“Does it matter? Cmon, let’s go,” he said, and reached for my hand.

My Mitch. Took him into my arms and held him as long as I could, pulling him back to me until he fell away again, twisting and dissolving, down into that root cellar with his collective rumblings down there, to scream in his sleep and worship the cold and pray for rain.

The sweating man pressed against me was born Nathaniel Phelps. Some call him Nate. Most just call him Prana because that’s all he’s been able to say since age nineteen, when he found his brother dead in the woods. His brother severed his femoral artery with a Bowie knife while field dressing a deer he’d shot. He had been alone, and bled very deeply and very badly two decades before cellphones were commonplace. Prana came upon him at the end of a red trail of blood pools on fresh snow that turned out not to lead someone’s shot deer but rather to his brother. Bled out and starting to freeze solid beneath a fresh dusting of mid-November snow. Nathaniel returned to camp muttering Prana… Pra-na. His family says he sat out in the cold against a tree that night and refused to eat for days. No one has figured out what the utterance can mean. The bled-out frozen brother’s name was Wallace. He was seventeen for a day.

Prana’s trauma took place in the woods, Mitch’s on the banks of a pristine trout stream in Wisconsin. Mitch walked away, mostly. Prana… Not so much. Not yet.

“They’re everywhere,” Jen said, after telling me about the man who used to take Mitch supposedly fishing down on Noisy Creek.

“Creeks?”

“No.”

When Mitch awoke, the doctor who treated him for his ribs sent in a psychiatrist. He wore a white lab coat like any other house doc, so Mitch didn’t suspect much. They talked and talked and when he left he told me Mitch would be following up with him at his practice. Consult for a wicked, ongoing experience with PTSD, he said to me. Dissociative Fugue. Said Mitch wouldn’t remember much of this. If anything, he added. Said his brain’s running in survival mode. On auto-pilot.

Dissociation. Of course. I nodded on the outside, but on the inside called myself a blind and stupid bitch for not spotting this sooner. How could I have missed all the signs?

The shrink in white lab coat left, giving me a knowing look as he reached for my hand, then stopped short when he saw the marks on my arm. He looked at me again, hesitated, and wished me well.

Prana cries and cries in my arms, back of his head tucked under my chin. EMS shows up at last, and I’m finally able to walk over to the restroom, where I peel off my drenched blouse and bra and plop them onto the counter by the sink in front of the mirror. There I am, hands slung loosely at my sides, staring back at me, only me, me alone. And my bare breasts coated in a strange man’s sweat.

I hear them wheel Prana away. A sense of tidal loss engulfs me. Can’t explain it. An emptiness that presses my lungs shut.

But soon enough I’m bent over the sink, staring at my sliced fingertips. Tender goat udders dripping thick threads of tainted milk. All the Prana, all of no-lawsuit guy, all the Todd. All dripping out. Even the Gatorade nurse and the spilled shrimp and grits. All of it all. Drips from the tips of each finger, one finger each for the P, the T, the S, and the D.

My bright new blood congeals on the side of the porcelain basin. The bathrooms here are always chilly, and this has happened before. The sink is cold and so my blood stops. And I breathe into my blood, clotted on the slope of the sink, breathing into it my warmth, and watch the red spirals glow, loosen, and turn to rain.

Steve Fox

about the author

Steve Fox's work has appeared in or has been recognized by Narrative Magazine, The Masters Review, The Iowa Review, Midwestern Gothic, The Midwest Review, The Wisconsin Writers Association, and Creative Wisconsin. His writing finished first place in the 2018 Wisconsin Writers Association Jade Ring Award Contest; the 2018 Great Midwest Writing Contest; Midwestern Gothic 2018 Summer Flash Contest; and the 2019 Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts, & Letters Fiction Competition. Steve lives with his wife, three boys, and one dog in Hudson, Wisconsin, and studies creative writing at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. Steve gets up on Monday morning and goes to be later that day on Saturday night. 
https://stevefoxwrites.com/