Alexander Kane

Seventeen days

Seventeen days.

I’ve been keeping track of them during the silences between gunfire that never arrives in the intervals between Isla’s breaths when I worry the next one might not come, in the moments it takes for the gold vein, beneath her skin to throb once and assure me that the city remains within her still keeping time alongside us.

I’m standing atop the roof of La Isla Dorada at 03:47 a.m. the moment when Brooklyn feigns slumber yet merely narrows an ...