I knew what had happened before Clint even opened his mouth.
It was a Saturday evening. I was thinking of going home, because the sunset was spoiled by a dirty blanket of cloud that let only weak slivers of crimson sunshine through. The sky at the horizon reminded me of a fresh cut, sprouting small rivulets of blood.
He ran up to me.
He'd been working on his parents farm all day, so his face was dirty. The sky found an agitated reflection in Clint's colourless face where rivulets of clear skin paled white through the dirt.
He'd been crying.