No Contact: Closing Time

It’s Yours
No Contact No Contact

It’s Yours

by D.T. Robbins

It’s 1 a.m. My son comes into my room, tells me he can’t sleep. 

I go, “Why can’t you sleep?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. Something’s wrong with my brain.”

“What part of your brain?”

He points to a place on his brain. 

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