Joy Holmes

The Book

The lone lightbulb swayed incessantly from the ceiling even though there was no breeze: the only window had been painted shut and wouldn’t open with the most stubborn of tugs. Rain streaked the dirty panes of glass, cast down from a morning sky full of dingy clouds. Stacks of cardboard boxes occupied space beneath the window, beside a serviceable twin bed, and a microwave and small coffee maker sat on a worn-out horizontal dresser -- but that wasn’t enough padding to keep Ethan’s voice from echoing off the bare walls of the small, square room.