Hand of the Follower

"I didn’t think it was worth anything. It wasn’t really worth anything, was it?"

New York City. 1957. Angry colors in the dark.

The lamp burned. She sat half-slumped in a chair in the corner, glass in her hand, bottle in her lap, trying to smother her nerves. He opened the door without knocking.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“You know what. The jar. The jar I gave to you. Don’t play games with me, Wanda. I’m not in the mood.”

“Look, I don’t like it. I don’t like having it in my room. It gives me the mimis.”