People told me my mother was beautiful. By the time I was able to perceive her face, I only saw the mouth turned sharply down at the edges and a glimpse of wildness in her eyes…

I’m behind the wheel of my beat up Chevy Blazer, wearing a red and grey-striped softball jersey, with “Holden Electric” scripted in crimson across the chest…

Billy Baker lived down the street from me, near the dead end. I was ten and he was eight, but he had a way about him that made him seem older.

They say home is what your heart keeps returning to. But for some it’s an accidental place, an extension of someone else, not yourself, something you arrive to by association. That’s how it was for me.

I went to lunch with a man I was getting to know who suffered from depression but was disciplined and productive.

When you write about murder it’s best to start with a few facts. The first one is this:

After twenty years, what remains of my father? I have a wooden platter on the wall

First, I remember his hand. Warm — like blood, like loss.

I know that there is a wholeness to the landscape in which I live. I know this as common sense, as experience, and by documentation and report.

The day I decided to again steal food I instituted three simple rules: Steal only essentials, only from big chains, never brag.