Death.
Lunchtime. I left my writing class at a little past 1 PM on Friday with ten dollars in my pocket and headed towards the Subway on Eighth Street. I was in the mood for some Jared-healthy food. I entered the small Subway, went straight past the fountain soda and chips and stared at the menu. So many choices: oven-roasted chicken breast, veggie delight, steak and cheese, turkey. One of the workers appeared from the back with a fresh container of tuna. I stared at the tuna as it glared right back at me, daring me to order. Nausea filled my body as I thought about my dad.
