The Bear by Francesca Leader
Where there’s a cub, there’s always a bigger bear.
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Where there’s a cub, there’s always a bigger bear.
One of the skinheads in the front column has a switchblade. He’s shifting it back and forth between his hands. I swig what’s left of my Natural Light.
Kincaid died in an IED explosion in the fourteenth month of our fifteen-month deployment.
Like a burglar in an action movie, it had dropped from the ceiling with paranormal accuracy.
She has been carrying this story for ten years, shifting its weight from shoulder to shoulder like a heavy backpack.