Hot Water Linda Goin She dipped her toes in the current, sweat dripping from her brow down to soak her shirt collar. Her drunk father hid his whiskey flasks inside empty cereal boxes, not caring when the grands fixed bowls for breakfast, they’d taste. Three sick kids later, she called him. He was in hot water. But, she wasn’t cool, either, with her gin on ice. Linda Goin
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