Steppe (Ghost Parachute)
by
““Yeah, dogsleds,” I mutter to no one. “Gotta hit the head.” No one seems to notice. The rest of my current table is still intent on Mikael’s tale, which appears to be as endless as the snowy expanse he was lost in. Or at least they are all still pretending to be listening, eager faces like little daisies tipped towards the Siberian sun.”
To read the rest of the story, about drinking and cold expanses, look here.
