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Jonah

Jonah hears the rain start outside. His wrists burn. He’s holding the old fountain pen wrapped in two towels. He no longer cares for quality of letters, or the decrepitude of the house where he’s barricaded himself: he’s on the last page.

It’s not until the first drop lands, near the top of that page, that he finds out the roof leaks.

“So that’s it?” Jonah growls. He forces the window open and scrambles out onto the roof. “Come at me, then!” he shrieks to the sky. “COME AT ME!”

The rain musses his hair a bit, then leaves him alone.

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