“Keys, keys, where are the blasted—ah, there.” As usual, they’ve dropped to the bottom of my bag where they’ve gotten entangled in the soggy swimming costume. I fumble the key into the lock, throw open the door, and enter an L-shaped corridor filled with the homey smells of fried bacon, Clorox, and rose potpourri. Oh, … Continue reading Myrtle Coldron by Lina Hansen
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