Wilson is always left behind at the end.

Alone in the theater, he is waist deep in velvet chairs, all patrons discharged into the aortic pumping of a New York City evening.

Solitude.

The last systole of music ascends to the rafters and all conversation absorbs into the carpeted floor.

Molly Hill lives, writes, and runs a lot of trail miles in her home state of Minnesota, even in the winter.