“Another round.”

Oswald sighed, holding up two fingers to signal the bartender. A small mound of empty shot glasses was forming to his right, and he downed yet another gulp of moonshine.

It’d been almost a year since his wife, Ortensia, had died from that awful disease. Inkblot, it was called. It’d made her melt into nothing, and Oswald had to see that happening to the woman of his dreams. No one would blame him for how he was now.