Apologies for the second post for today, but last night's updates fell into a cell-hole.
Keep those questions coming, and I'll keep answering them!
I adore Andra. Two days before she left for this 444-mile walk we had a surprise celebration for her at The Belmont in Charleston, the first time I had successfully surprised her since the day 10 years before when I made my proposal to her that she be my wife for life. These ten years have been my best years, so far.
How could I possibly let her wander of into the dangers of the Natchez Trace? Throughout history, the Trace has been a haunt of notorious highwaymen, robbers and murderers.
Halos. Auras. Bright squigglies. They fill her sight lines as she peels away from the life she flees, a sick confetti to ridicule her drive toward the existence she escaped. Oncoming headlights dance in mockery. Her little brother sleeps with his head in her lap. It’s for him that she keeps the machine in the road, fighting the glare of the approaching beams.
She rubs her eyes with the back of one hand. Is someone following her?
My feet sink into grass. Clods of dirt make walking tough, and this blasted rifle isn't helping. Dad always makes me carry this one, and it's too big for me. He's stooped and creeping along ahead of me, weaving this way and that in what he thinks are evasive tactics but are really just him being drunk.
I stop and hold my breath. In the minutes before the birds start singing, there's nothing. No sound. It's like the world up and died.
I don't want to go in there during the deadest part of night. I might not make it out.