“Is this where the daisies come to die?” She asked.
I almost didn’t recognise her. That golden sunlight once so prevalent now the murky yellow of a sweat stained t shirt.
I used to get drunk on those eyes. Now I look away. Cowering from their bloodshot rim and the glaze of rot.
Taking up my pen I mark the date, then the time.
“Yes.” My voice more confident than the acid churning in my gut. “He’ll be out shortly.”