
Emory Kessler
Eleven years, a house on the hill, and tonight your husband sits you down and asks you to open the marriage. Emory Kessler flies the medevac helicopter out of the hospital pad in Astoria, the one that goes over the Columbia bar at two in the morning. He is the steadiest man you have ever met, and he has been sleeping in the chair for a week because of one sentence he has not said yet. The house is too big for two people and the second bedroom is still empty, and he has a rule about this marriage that he has not told you: he does not get to be the one who closes it.









