hungry? Have some troll food.

“Weather’s shitty,” Dunbar said to his son Harwood.

“Just some fog,” Harwood said, bending over to lace up his running shoes.

“Lotta fog. Cold too,” Dunbar sniffled. A slimy mug emerged from the kitchen sink and slid into his swollen, arthritic hands. Around here, coffee didn’t wait for clean cups.