Stepping past the jazz club and clothing store, he heard a high-pitched whimper in the background, rising above the traffic's din. It sounded wounded, almost angry. Like a dying goose.
Checking the faces of other pedestrians, he wonders why nobody else seemed to notice the sound. They all kept walking, faces casual. Nobody was curious about that tortured wail.
Byron shrugged it off, figuring he was just imagining it. Maybe he was distracted by the grim mission that lay ahead of him.
He took a seat at the sidewalk cafe, checking the time and rehearsing words in his head he'd already repeated more times than he cared to recall.
It's not you. It's me. I just don't think I'm...
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