Thousand: Three Hundred Seventy-Three

into thinking you are having a good time when really it’s to hell you are driving yourself. Under the sign for Guide Dog to Hell there was a little red door with one of those old fashioned peepholes attached to a knocker. The man who raised the brass knocker and tapped away with it had been young once and handsome, but was sagging now, like an old porch, and he sighed frequently, like a sofa cushion. The woman who peeped at him through the hole in the door didn’t like the look of him, so she opened the door and,