Back to homepage Keith Solomon

Jack Devitt hunches over a small, weathered table at the corner of The Oyster Shell. The bar's dim light glints off the slick trail left by condensation on his beer bottle, and with each bead that descends, a bit of Jack seems to drain away too. He's not just nursing the beer; he's nursing the raw edges of his heart, frayed and unraveled by Ronnie's abrupt departure.