The Rip
“I don’t like the books. But sometimes you don’t need to like a ladder to climb out of a hole.”
Gabe let his head bump the wood. “You think a book will tell me how to keep my son alive?”
“I think words carry weight,” Frank said. “Even the wrong ones. Speculum. Mirror. Sacculus. Pouch.” He tasted them again, grimacing. “A ploughed mirror, a pocket, a— trap. The last one—repdetrious—could be a corruption of repetitus—to return, demanded back. Or detrītus ground down. It could be a mouth mis-shaping something old.” He exhaled. “Or it’s theatre. But theatre doesn’t crush steel and write in virgin sand.”
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