Friday, November 23, 2012

Clutch by JA Huss : First Chapter, Promo: Innovative Book Tours Stop

 
 


 
 
In 2152 the avian race is on Earth looking for something stolen from them decades ago – their genetics.  At the center of the search lies the Rural Republic; a small backwards farming country with high hopes of military domination and a penchant for illegal bioengineering.
19 year old Junco Coot is the daughter of the Rural Republic’s ranking commander. She’s the most foul-mouthed, wildly unpredictable and ruthless sniper the Rural Republic has ever trained.  But when her father’s death sparks a trip into forbidden places, she triggers events that will change everything she knows to be true.
As an elite avian military officer, Tier’s mission is to destroy the bioengineering projects, kill Commander Coot’s daughter, and return home immediately. There’s just one problem. Junco isn’t who she claims to be.
With no one to trust, not even herself, Junco must confront the secrets of her past and accept her place in the future, or risk losing herself completely.
CONTENT WARNING - The I Am Just Junco series is NOT young adult and contains A LOT of bad language and violence
 
 

 

Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock...

I shake my head.

Fuck that.

I’m standing on a dirt road barefoot, exhaust from the Goat swirling the dust up my funeral dress, trying to make sense of things.

The closed stop-gate in front of me signals the entrance to the Stag, but the antlered skull in the middle of the arm spawns a moment of pause. My eyes linger on the decorations only long enough to log them. Blood-red paint on the antlers, an old wooden arrow sticking out of one of the orbits, and a crown of acacia thorns draped around the tines.

A child’s prank.

The cigar slips between my lips. I cup my hand to block the wind, touch the cigar to the striker, and suck in deeply as the end glows bright orange. They make me stink, but I don’t care.

Today, I don’t care about much.

I slam the Goat’s door and walk towards the skull, then hear the tell-tale crack of a sonic boom and turn to squint at the sun. It’s losing its battle with the rotating earth and starting to sink. Peak City has been out of my sight line for hours but I know where it should be on the horizon and the contrail of a suborbital coming out of the north points back to my home in the distance.

Turning back to the gate, I watch the wind pick up the strip of wood across the excuse for a road and make it dance. A stray magpie lands and rides the skull with a rhythm that reminds me of better days. It watches me, tilting its head to the side, and squawks, "Away!"

I flick the half-smoked stub at it and it flies off.

There is nothing here to stop my progress into the Stag but since this is a forbidden zone in the Rural Republic, I pause before taking this final step. Consequences tend to mean less with the loss of precious things, so they mean nothing to me now.

Reaching up, I release my long auburn hair from the tie and let it flap around my expressionless face as the wind tries to carry it across the grasslands.

If only the wind would carry me across the grasslands.

My cold toes scrunch into the dirt and I remember my funeral shoes are in the backseat, discarded hours ago. I walk over to the Goat and fish around until I pull together a pair of field boots and some black thermals. I hike the warm leggings up to my hips and then sit on the edge of my old Humvee and meticulously lace up each boot so they are snug, but not tight.

A sheathed hunting knife is in danger of dropping through the rusted-out floorboard and I rescue it, stashing it inside the boot. Then I slide my shotgun onto the front seat and drop my little pistol into the crap box with other items one finds in a vehicle. The lid drops closed with a snap.

In the end I didn’t need to waste time in front of the gate. It was never a question of if I would go. Only when. I climb back into the front seat, jam the Goat in gear and veer off the road, pressing up against the low-hanging cottonwoods that have crept up from the dry riverbed. I brace myself as my vehicle bounces down into the ditch and then jolts back up. I gun it as the tires lose a little traction in earth soft from the rains, swing her around the ominous gate, and surge back onto the dirt track that still thinks it is a road.

On the other side I stop once more to check for Peak City in the distance, but all I see is the magpie, back on the skull, riding it out. I flip it off and gun the Goat again. We lurch forward, sputtering out a cloud of smoke that could get you hanged in some parts of the world.

But not here.

The Rural Republic might officially be part of the United Republics, but that’s pretty much where it ends. Our national motto is quaint. Simple Serves . A reference to the throwback life we are supposed to be leading. But if you’re not from around here and need help, (which is strictly theoretical, we’re a closed campus, kids) the answer you get is disinterest. If you’re lucky.

The drive out to Stag Camp is a stretch of open road, peppered with the occasional falling-down farmhouse or small herd of antelope. So I settle in, light another cigar, and slide the window down even though the warm November afternoon has given in to the cold November night.

Nothing to do now but think about the job. My eyes track to the passenger seat, past the shotgun, and come to rest upon the thick envelope pressed into my hands as I left the funeral several hours ago. The label on the front is machine-printed, but it doesn’t say Junco. It says Dale. Resident of one Stag Camp in the middle of nowhere.

The dying light seeps out of my world. The eye-shine peering back at me from the side of the road as I take a wide turn is what clues me in. The two glowing dots are far enough apart to estimate size and my body gives an involuntary shiver as I run down the short list. Nightdog or prairie lion. Either one would eat me alive.
 

The sky is filled with stars long before I spy the dark shadow of the landmark hill in the distance. It’s a slow climb that turns into a nightmare halfway up, then a flat patch to gather some steam so you can push your vehicle to its limit and struggle up the final grade that will plunge you over the other side.

I watch the approaching ridge with some trepidation. Once over it, I’ll be more in than out. A sigh escapes my lips and I push the Goat until her body shakes, getting ready for the ascent.

We hit the hill going about 110, but the steep initial grade checks us and we lose speed quick. I downshift, then again, and by the time the grade evens back out for several hundred feet we are barely skimming 40. I gun it again so we can gain some momentum to get over the hump and I catch a little air as we pass over the summit.

The buck in the road never has a chance. The Goat slams into the animal midair and the tendons and bones snap loudly in the cold night. The lower half of the deer slips under the tires, creating a slick mess of tissue and blood on the road. The head flies straight at my face and the bloodied antlers crash into the glass.

I slam on the brakes and the head loses its hold on the window and flies off out of sight. I hit a patch of greasy mud left over from the last rain and slide sideways, towards the edge of what may be a cliff, or a gently rolling embankment.

I quickly correct, not waiting to find out, only to discover I’m now sliding backwards. I swing the wheel around, body parts flipping out from under the tires, and hit the brakes again. The Goat and I slip sideways into the ditch and I use the bounce to straighten out the wheels. When she comes down hard we’re moving forward into a sparse grove of pines.

I force my foot down on the brake one more time, sliding sideways in the softened mud, and barely manage to aim between two old-growth Ponderosas as the lower branches slap against the Goat’s doors.

I steer us through as best I can, but when you’re racing a five-thousand-pound vehicle through a small forest, you tend to run out of luck sooner rather than later. A deep ditch of water erosion plunges the Goat down, but she recovers and jerks back up. My head hits the steering wheel and I feel the blood slip down my face, then taste iron as it trickles into my mouth. The Goat’s front tires find another ditch and I lurch forward, cracking my head on what’s left of the driver’s side windshield. Finally we slam into the thick twisted trunk of a cottonwood. I have a second or two to moan, and then it all goes black.
 

Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake...

The blood seeps into my mouth and I cough, then spit out a coagulated hunk of something before opening my eyes.

Shit.

I listen for noises around me and panic sets in when I hear the sharp snap of a dry tree branch off to my right. My head rolls towards the noise, not quite controlled, and I wait a few more moments to let things clear up a bit. The pain in my shoulder is like fire and the blood is hot as it trickles down the side of my head.

In front of me is a stream, not a goddamn mountain lake.

Wait.

I shake my head.

A small trickle of water has materialized from the last rain and the sound of it makes my mouth dry up immediately. I move my head slightly, allowing a moan to escape, and let my right hand reach out for the water bottle on the seat.

Of course, it’s not there.

I twist my body a little so I can make a more earnest search of the cab, then grab the steering wheel with my left hand to stabilize my movement.

"Fucking shit!"

That hurts.

The pain is pulled up into every synaptic center of my brain. The resulting vertigo almost makes me heave. A thousand birds take flight from the trees and the wingbeats flare up in my ears.

And then the whispers start.

The dark whisper of a flock of starlings too long in the company of men. There is nothing more creepy than human words coming out of a starling beak and the contents of my stomach experience another moment of protest until I can push it down. I reach into the crap box with my right hand and pull out the pistol, aiming it through the broken glass of the window in front of me. The shot rings out and the recoil travels through my body like a standing wave. When it reaches my left shoulder I scream again. This time the starlings stay silent.

More tree branch snapping hauls me back to my current situation and my eyes dart around, alert for movement. I take a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly, but that does nothing to stop whatever is moving out in the trees.

I shoot another round off and do a better job at damping down the recoil. This time I see a shadow of a great owl fly off in the distance. It must have been hunting in the trees.

I sit there for a little longer and then swing my legs across the gear stick, scoot over to the passenger side door and release the handle. Pure determination allows me to coerce my legs into standing and then I seize my water bottle off the floor and down it in large gulps.

A thorough shuffling through dirty field clothes leads to a belt. I position it across my body and slip my arm into the loop of leather to take the weight off my injury, then sling the shotgun over my good shoulder and grab my pack to begin my walk back up the hill to the road. Looking and listening for any sign of apex predators.

The road looks like it usually does when a large deer gets mowed over by a military vehicle, so I don’t dwell on it and instead walk the short distance back up to the top of the hill and try to see if there are any lights in the distance.

The Rural Republic is a chancy place to be stranded on any given day, but being alone in the Stag is exceptionally bad luck. There are no vehicles on the road, nor will there be. No one knows where I am, so no one will come looking.

I look east and see nothing. I look west and see nothing. That pretty much sums up the extent of what’s available in terms of assistance. It makes no difference which way I go, the stop-gate back in Council 5 and the Stag Camp proper are about equal distance from the spot where I stand. I will have to winch the Goat up and out of that ravine before any other decisions can be made.

The night isn’t as black as it could be and for that I’m grateful. The moon has fully risen in the time it took me to free myself from the Goat and hitch up my arm, and while it isn’t anything near full, neither is it a sliver of hopelessness. Walking outside of the boundaries of the road leads me to an almost flat, grassy patch of earth. I find the Big Dipper and then Cassiopeia to ease the creeping feeling of aloneness, then lower myself down on the ground and rest my throbbing head back into the palm of my hand for just a few moments of rest.

The sounds of nature come back.

And with them are the dark whispers of starlings. They haunt me as I drift off to sleep.
 

Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake and behind you is a small cabin, pristine white curtains flowing in the breeze passing through the windows. Down below the water you can see the scales of brightly colored fish reflecting the sunlight...

... and then you are in a church, looking down on a meeting.

No, wait, that’s not how it goes.

I’m a piece of stained glass high up in the window. I look down at my body and see that I’m naked, but that’s not the disturbing thing. Instead of feet I have long raptor talons that host a variety of knives instead of claws. From my mouth come the whispers of the starlings and the gurgling in my throat causes me to scream and break free of the glass. It shatters down to the floor where people argue. The shards of blood-colored glass kill them as they slice through their backs and then I am flying high up in the air, looking down on the Stag. I know it’s the Stag because of the tall perimeter wall and the guardhouse at the gate. I land near the guardhouse, still outside the camp, and my father exits in full uniform and puts his hand up to stop me. I need to get in, Daddy, I say – even though I haven’t called him Daddy since my mother disappeared when I was six. He opens his mouth and starlings fly out, screaming their whispers in my ears, and then they attack me with their long thin beaks and their wings beat against my body. I fly away, circling the Stag Camp, and then I dive down, spiraling into the gushing wind. It explodes and I am thrown up into the sky as a constellation where Orion hunts me like the bull for time everlasting.

And then I am warm and the starlings are gone, but the whispers are still there, making me feel safe. They are soft now, not deep and evil, but soft. And I listen to them and I say OK.

 

The warmth of the dream fades and I wake shivering as the sweat drips off my body. A movement catches my eye across the expanse of wild grass and I sit upright in an instant, ignoring the fire in my shoulder. I have the shotgun out, propped in the area where my hip meets my stomach, and I brace my arm on my thigh as I level the barrel on the shadow in the distance as best I can. My finger slips onto the trigger and squeezes lightly as I prepare for the shot.

It’s not a prairie lion because I can see the outstretched wings back-lit by starlight as it skulks across the field. And it’s obviously not an owl because it’s walking on two legs.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," it says.

I squeeze the trigger and the recoil slams me into the ground, screaming in pain.

I’m back in the blur of agony once again and fuck is coming out of my mouth at regular intervals. The black shadow stands over me now, the dark wings fully outstretched and imposing.

"I told ya not to do that."

It’s a male voice.

I pull away wincing, trying to sink down into the ground to avoid him as he leans into my personal space.

"That’s really going to hurt now. You humans. It’s always shoot first, ask questions later."

I find my voice and snort at him. "At least a human would know better than to sneak up on a girl stranded in the middle of nowhere with a shotgun."

The avian’s hypnotic green eyes brighten as he smiles at me. "Ya have a point there, darlin’."

We have a semi-serious staring contest for a few seconds and then he reaches down towards me. "Ya need a hand?"

I look him up and down from my unfortunate submissive situation. His wings are a lot more imposing than I figure they should be. I’ve seen images of avians here and there over the years, but not enough to be any kind of expert on them.

Sighing, I consider my options as he waits. I can either roll around on my knees and try to get up – or I can get up with some dignity left intact. I shrug and extend my good arm up to him. "Sure."

He takes it and I brace for the explosion of agony that will surely come from my shoulder, but he pulls me to my feet in a smooth, gentle manner. I manage to end upright with only a few squeaks of pain escaping my lips.

"That was unlucky, eh?"

"Unlucky? I almost shot you. I figure that’s pretty fucking lucky myself."

"The accident, friend. An unlucky thing to hit that animal."

I grab my gun and ignore him as I hitch my pack up on my hip and shuffle through to check my ammo supply.

"Missing something?"

I give him a long once-over and he waits patiently for me to finish. "You do realize you’re trespassing, right? Aliens are not permitted in the RR under any circumstances."

"You’d be surprised," he says.

I swing the shotgun on the strap so it’s out in front of me, brace it on my thigh to compensate for my injured shoulder, cycle the next round into the chamber, and then point it straight at his chest. I strain to prevent the wince that really wants to leak across my face. "Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but as a Farm Family Representative of Council 3, I’m asking you to leave under Regulation V.1.b – Aliens are not permitted in the Rural Republic under any circumstances. I have the authority to shoot and if you doubt me, I apologize ahead of time for taking your life. You are hereby legally warned."

"Look, sweetheart–"

I squeeze back and the round blasts out of the chamber but he’s high above me in the air as the shot passes into the trees. The leaves rustle and the birds are wild once again. The recoil pain isn’t as bad from the standing position, but I feel the blood leaking out under the skin on my hip, creating a bruise. I push the pain down. "I’ve been shooting since I could walk, sweetheart, and I’ve had a really shitty day. Do not fuck with me."

He flies off over the trees about a dozen yards away and I can just barely make him out as he lands in the cover of the brush.

"Is that how ya treat someone who saves your life? Shoot them?"

I snort. "Saved my life? I must have missed that one while I was sleeping."

"Except ya weren’t sleeping, Junco. Ya were unconscious."

It isn’t often that I get stunned into silence, but an alien knowing my name in the middle of nowhere can do it. "How the hell do you know my name?"

Silence from him now.

The glimmer of light that was previously there is gone, and so is he.

I take stock of the mountaintop meadow. Where are you, where are you?

Silence.

I pivot on my heel, gun braced one-armed against my stomach to catch the recoil, and do a proper survey of the area. My good arm is tiring quick after all the adrenaline I’ve used up and it begins to shake. I force the bravado. "Guess you decided to take my–"

Then he is behind me, the gun is flying across the field, and he’s twisted my bad shoulder just enough to make me scream out. His lips touch my cheek as he whispers, "Look, I’m not usually the type of person who abuses little girls, but you’ve shot at me two times now and I’m not going to stand for it. I’m here for the moment and you’re just gonna to have to deal with it. Ya got it?"

He eases up on my shoulder and pushes me away from him.

I rub the flaming tissue and wince. "Did you just insult me?"

He tilts his head at me. "What? Me? Ya tried ta shoot me – twice!"

"I might be little, but the way you said it implied I’m insignificant. Which I assure you, I am not. And besides, you’re the one who’s trespassing, right? That’s you." I point my finger up at him. "I have every right to tell you to leave, I’m a fucking representative of Council–"

"3, yeah, I heard ya the first time. Who gives a shit? I’m here. Get over it."

I stare at him in the dim moonlight and quite frankly, I don’t care for what I see. "You’re so fucking lucky I’m injured."

"Or what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Why are you here?"

"Oh my fucking God, are we in playschool or what?"

"I know where you were going."

I laugh. "The road only goes one place, alien. That’s not a hard deduction."

"I know what you were gonna do, as well."

That’s it, I’m done. I begin walking down the hill.

"Oi! Now what are you doing?" he calls.

I ignore him as he trots a little to catch up. He keeps his distance to a few paces behind as I make my way to the road and then begin the descent down the slope back to the Goat. When I finally reach it I wiggle into the back seat of the cab and lie down, trying to even out my breathing before he gets there. My eyes close as I hear him climb into the front passenger seat.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I’m sleeping. Get the fuck out of my Goat." My good arm slides under the seat and I allow my finger to caress the high-powered rifle tucked away for emergencies. I can’t shoot it, my shoulder would never tolerate that, but it gives me comfort to know it’s there.

He doesn’t get out. Instead he talks.

"I saw yer headlights coming in the darkness. I didn’t think much about it really, but the accident had me concerned. Ya hit yer head pretty hard, there."

Yeah, thanks for the update.

"I’m sorry for twisting yer shoulder, OK?" The anger seeps out of me as I listen to his hypnotic words. I struggle to keep my eyes closed but an overwhelming force urges me to look him in the face.

"Junco, I did save your life. Ya had a bad concussion. It was a mistake to fall asleep. I was just tryin’ ta help when I brought ya out of it."

This revelation jolts me out of my trance and I fight to shake off my weariness to get this story straight. "Wait," I say as I painfully push my body back up into a half-sitting position. "What? You were touching me when I was sleeping?"

He squirms a little at my tone. "No, look, it wasn’t like that. Ya weren’t sleeping, ya were unconscious – I just – wrapped ya in my wings so I could bring ya back up."

"You were touching me." It’s a statement this time, not a question. "In my sleep."

"Look, I saved your life, for Christ’s sake!"

"How dare you swear at me! Don’t you realize–"

"I’m sorry, you’re right,” he looks away and blows out a breath, “I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot you are a pious bunch out here."

"Get out!" I snarl. I feel the blood rush to my face and the adrenaline flood my muscles as I watch him extract himself from my vehicle, stopping only to release one of his wings from the floppy seat belt as he exits the Goat.

I let myself smile after he leaves. That pious bullshit works every time on strangers. And he even heard me cussing like a soldier up on the hill. But I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t remember reading anything about avians having glowing green eyes before. Creepy.  

 

When I wake my crusted-closed eyelids are the least of my worries. I struggle to force them open once I realize the sun is up. My muscles have been welded into my current sleeping orientation and no matter how hard I fight against it, they reward me with an intense shooting pain in my left shoulder with the slightest of movements.

A delicious smell meanders into the cab from outside so I force a shift in position until I can prop myself up without contorting my face into an expression of disfigurement. I ease my head up just enough to peer out the window and see the avian poking a stick at a roasting bird over a small campfire.

He looks up at me and smiles.

Dammit. So much for stealth. I should be ashamed of myself.

"Hungry now?" His accent is something different than mine, but I can’t place it. "Still not talking, eh? Well, I made breakfast," he points to the smoking fowl, "so that should buy me some goodwill."

I wrestle around frantically for a second, trying to find an extraction route that won’t cause me to scream, but I can’t see it.

"So, how long do ya young ladies typically pout out here in the wilds, then?" he calls. "Can you give me an estimate?"

I struggle again, pulling on the seat belt that hangs limply behind the driver’s seat to get some leverage, but the aging bracket attaching it to the headliner snaps off from my weight and I give up and lie back with a sigh.

He appears at the broken window on the passenger side. "I can’t believe you slept back there in that tiny space." He laughs at me, and I have to admit, he’s got a nice look to him, plus his green eyes are bright in the sunlight and they are no longer glowing, so the creep factor has been dialed down a bit.

His large black wings are tucked tight against his back and the tips cup over the top of his shoulders, so I can’t see much of them. A few loose arcs of dark hair tumble off his forehead and fall around his eyes. He’s wearing some kind of foreign get-up that might be the alien equivalent of black jeans and t-shirt, but they are cut to his specific body modifications and made out of some kind of heavy canvas. It has the look of light armor, something we might wear for war games. His skin is light, but not fair. Like fall has stolen most of the golden tan of summer away.

"That’s nice. Short jokes. Very funny." My voice sounds as cranky as I feel.

He lets off a little laugh. "Need some help out?"

I scowl and try to think up another way. But I can’t. "Yeah, sure. Just come around here to the other side of the Goat and get in so you can push me up a little." Then I add, "Please."

He smiles at my manners, which make his eyes twinkle a little. Not glow, but still. The creepiness is just under the surface.

The old door creaks as he opens it and I try to turn and look at him but the shoulder flares up at my attempt. I feel his hands reach under me to my good arm and I struggle not to laugh, but it bursts out anyway. I wriggle away from his touch before he pulls back in hesitation.

"Now, what the hell was that?"

"I’m ticklish, so kill me. You can’t just slip your hands into someone’s pits and not expect them to laugh."

“Can I push you up or not?"

"Yes, push. Just don’t stick me in my pits."

He does push and I flail around like a turtle on its back for a few embarrassing seconds, then find myself upright and looking out the window facing the campfire. It smells wonderful.

"Whew, that’s better," I say as I turn my whole body so I can see him properly. "Thanks, I really appreciate it." I even manage a smile, which in turn allows him to offer me one back.

"Would you like some help with that shoulder before ya eat?"

"What’s that mean?" I ask, looking at him sideways.

"The wings, darlin’," he says, pointing a thumb towards his shoulders, "they heal, remember?"

Of course I remember but I’m not even remotely interested in letting him get a hold of me again, so I lie instead. "No, I’m fine. Really." And just to prove it I scoot over to the door and flip the handle with my good hand, then smile back at him as I push it open.

His hand goes to my good shoulder and stops me before I can make my hasty exit. "Relax, Junco. I can fix it. We aren’t going to get far with ya like that, anyway."

"I don’t know what you mean by we, but in case you haven’t noticed my legs are just fine."

"Yeah, I see that. But we won’t be walking out of here. That would take days."

I laugh a little and send him a crooked smile. "The Goat has a winch, so don’t you worry about me."

"Sorry, darlin’, you won’t be winching anything if you don’t let me take care of that shoulder."

My lips involuntarily form a snarl and my eyes narrow in anger. "What’s with this darling bullshit? Stop calling me that."

He just smiles. "Fine, Junco. Come here, I’ll fix the shoulder. Think of it as a gift."

"No." I move to get past him but his eyes catch mine and begin to glow. I’m drawn in and I can’t stop looking at him.

"I said come here, Junco."

In my mind I say no. But my body is already wrapped up in his wings and my head begins to spin. I can hear him whisper in my ear, and his breath dances across my cheek.

"Does it feel good?" he asks.

"Mmmmhmmmm, yesss," I say, slurring my words a bit. The heat from his body exchanges between us and my shoulder is sucking it up like a vacuum. My thoughts twist around in an incoherent mess as we sit, melded together in heat. He stays that way for several minutes and my mind is carried away with the effects of his body.

Then I am high above looking down on the Stag. I see a few straggling antelope and watch the wind caress the grass as I begin to float away. "Stop, no flying."

In an instant the heat is gone and the avian has twisted me around to see my face. "What did you just say?"

My shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore but my head is really fuzzy, like I’m drunk, so I don’t even remember what I said.

He shakes me a little to jar my memory. "Junco? What are you talking about?"

I think hard and squint. "Flying? Did I say flying?"

"What about flying?"

"The Stag is burning," I say as I try to open my eyes.

I feel his chest collapse as he exhales. "What?"

"Just a dream," I say, forcing myself to concentrate. "It was just a dream. Didn’t make any sense."

We sit there as I recover. He’s still got his arms around me, but his wings never return to make their addictive cocoon of healing. I stay still as the world comes back to me a little at a time. Then our closeness gets weird and I push him off. He hops out and comes over to my side of the door to help me out.

"I’m starving. Can I have some of that?" I point over to the browned bird strung up over the coals.

"Help yourself, there’s water too."

"Aren’t you going to eat?" I ask. But he just walks away and busies himself with his pack.

"More for me then. And hey," I call out, "Thanks, I guess. Shoulder really does feel better." 

 






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1 comment:

Julie said...

Thanks for having my on your blog, Laurie! I really appreciate you hosting Clutch! :)

Julie