Chapter 37

A man sat in one of the wooden chairs, basking in the sun. I recognized him from ten meters away. Mr. Corrigan had aged. Twelve years ago, in his early forties, he was broad-shouldered and thick-backed. With just his hands, he could haul me out of the river, throw me over his shoulder, and run two blocks. Now, sitting in the wooden chair, his hair was mostly white. He had lost a lot of weight, his cheekbones jutting out high, and the wrinkles on his face looked carved by a knife. Only those...