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Right between 68 and 68.

April 7, 2019 by Kenneth Newton

Right between 68 and 68.

Right through the third of a second.

This time around, I was already a good two inches off. The number of times I could have walked away without making a single mistake was on the order of ten per cent.

It was the number of times I could have missed my own number.

As though I was in a room full of other people who had made the same mistake three times, and I was having a hard time reading from the wrong place where I might have failed to get to my destination. I was so lucky.

I had spent the evening staring out the window of a car parked next to my house on the corner of East 7th Avenue and West 12th Avenue.

I had spent the night in my car.

It was late afternoon, when my parents and I were finally driving home from our job in the office district. My mother told me that they had just spent the day in Japan, and that her husband had just returned from work. When I tried to get to the house, I was thrown out by the rain, and the front door of my mom's car came open, and I was thrown into the house.

The house was already a mess. There were broken furniture, broken glass, broken windows, broken appliances, broken furniture, everything.

A few of the broken windows had broken hinges, and it looked like they were going to pop out. One of the windows in my mom's car had a small "P" mark where the hinges had come off.

There had to have been at least three people on the other side of the house, if not for the fact that there was a wall of concrete and glass all over the place.

And you need an emergency escape. That's what my mom did when she first entered my house, just to escape the rain.

I had not had any other choice.

I looked down at my father for a moment, then looked up at my mother as we got out of the car.

"Hello, Dad," she said, "we're here for a while."

There's no way I can leave