By Stephen Young
I park the truck at Williamsgate Assisted Living and replace the elastic of my face mask around the back of my head and over my ears. I hump a bag of meal deliveries to the 17th floor where the hallway is poorly lit and the cinder-block walls too narrow to allow a woman to pass me without difficulty.
I look back. Her calf is a rumbled backside, and a bandaid has fallen half off revealing a nasty sore. The blood stain waves hello as she makes progress past the elevator door. Her round figure disappears without a turn right or left.[Read more…] about The Stairs Down