It was cold for the middle of August.
Goat came in from the yard, shivering, almost running to his desk. He bent down and pulled a thick stack of folded sheets of paper from the dresser’s bottom drawer. The heartsick, love letters he never could give to who knew how many girls and women.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he smoothed them out and then folded them again, this time as paper airplanes.
Later than night, he drank too many beer, tossing the planes across the yard, watching them glide and land in the flames of the fire he’d built.