The coffee shop lights were dim. I could not make out the faces of the folks sitting in the far corner. I opened my book and thumbed to a short story titled, Andrew. It was one of my favorites. It was about two soldiers whose paths crossed in the wilderness as they found their way home after the Civil War. It was about dealing with having killed ― and it was about dealing with your own approaching death. Those are risky subjects for a writer ― but for once, I nailed it. At least, I thought so.
I cleared my throat and began.