The following is a work of fiction.
Frost caked the plastic of the headlights, and the jagged beams cut through the static of the night.
It was winter, the deepest of it, and the two of them entered into the heart of the north, the bleeding sun behind them now, as they moved on the salt-laden road.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
This from Arthur Snow, at the wheel, coffee in left hand, still hot in the thermos, which surprised him. The label on it said Hot Up to 9 Hrs. It made true on its word.
“What?”
This from Derek, the younger one by three years. No coffee for him, only the fizzling head of a fresh-cracked can. [Read more…] about The Winter Ride