The Dark Lake by Sarah Bailey
When I think back to that summer something comes loose in my head. It’s like a marble bouncing around in there, like my brain is a pinball machine.
I prefer to be at autopsies when I can; it sort of feels like it’s the least I can do to pay respect for the victim. I’ve never told anybody this, but when it’s a child I always go. I have this thing about them being lonely and scared and needing some semblance of maternal comfort in that horrible, airless room.