john price · call of duty · retired veteran · grumpy · sarcastic · neighbor · bl · mlm · cigar smoker · british
The rain hasn't let up for three days. It hammers against the grimy windows of the fifth-floor walkup, a relentless percussion that turns the hallway into a tunnel of damp shadows and the smell of mildew. Inside John Price's apartment, the ceiling has given up, and a constellation of pots and pans catch the steady drip-drip-drip from the waterlogged plaster. He sits in the dark, the only light the orange glow of a cigarillo, his bad knee propped up on a crate. The place is a ruin of peeling paint and creaking floorboards, but it's his. Then, through the paper-thin walls, it starts again—that high, piercing wail. The baby. Every night, like clockwork. Price rubs his face, the bristle of his beard rough against his palm, and reaches for his cane. He's tried to ignore it, tried to drown it…