swept quickly across a thick grouping
of snow-capped trees, setting them ablaze in white light as they drew rapidly near.
Sean straightened his arms and pressed his back deeply into his seat to brace for
impact as his heart punished his chest. A wicked jolt brought all momentum to an
abrupt halt, peeling him from the vinyl beneath him for a moment before he collapsed
back down into a seated position.
Deep breaths spewed from his lungs as his large eyes surveyed the white, heavy branches
that now draped over the hood of his car. Snow continued to fall in dense particles.
He watched in silence as they landed on his windshield.
Once the glaze that coated his eyes began to evaporate, he formed a fist and angrily
hammered it across the top of his dashboard. From under his seat, he retrieved a
twelve-inch-long black Mag flashlight. He flipped it on, surprised the beam was strong
as it was considering he couldn’t remember the last time he had replaced its batteries.
He tugged on the inside door handle and was relieved that he could swing the door
open without any problems. It was a good sign that the frame of his car was spared
significant damage. He carefully pulled himself out into the cold and kept a hand
on the hood for balance as he shuffled his way on uncertain footing to the front
of the car.
His eyes winced to keep the snow and chilly breeze from bringing them to tears as
he stood at the edge of a small ditch. Ducking under the thick limbs full of snow,
he leaned around to the grill of the car and spotted no damage. He’d assumed he had
struck the trunk of a tree head-on, but he hadn’t. He’d stopped a couple of feet
short of it.
He made his way to the other side of the car, where he discovered the real obstruction—a
large, rounded rock just outside of the ditch at the shoulder of the road. His tire
had nailed it squarely and was now completely flat.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
The truth was that it could have been far worse. A new tire was at least a manageable
expense; a new car was not. Even luckier was Roy Hughes.
Hughes had probably already turned in for the evening, being on an early-morning
delivery schedule. He was probably fast asleep under warm, comfortable covers, smack
dab in the middle of some dream about the next hit-piece he would run on Sean. He
was safe, at least for now.
Sean popped his trunk and pushed aside piles of wadded up clothes, gear, and trash
until he’d freed up enough room to pull out his spare tire and the metal jack underneath
it. He recalled the day he had first learned to change a tire. His uncle had taught
him the skill when he was around ten years old—the kind of training that normally
would have been carried out by one’s father. By then, Sean’s father had already left.
“Patience. . .” Zed would tell Sean when he’d have trouble lining up the jack or
threading the lug nuts back on correctly. “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”
Zed claimed to have come up with the quote, but Sean always suspected he was fibbing.
Still, it begrudgingly seemed to be the right advice as Sean had worked on removing
the flat back then. The irony of the scene wasn’t lost on him. He half suspected
that from high above, his uncle had had something to do with blowing out the tire.
Maybe it was the crispness of the air or the calmness that came with the solitude
surrounding him, but he managed to regain his temperament and clear his head. His
thoughts went back to Jessica.
He couldn’t bring himself to understand quite why he had taken such an interest in
her. She was largely a stranger—someone who hadn’t given him any reason to care about
her. Yet, the image of tears streaming down her face wouldn’t leave his mind. He
was determined to get a copy of that newspaper and figure out what had triggered
the episode. And once Sean Coleman was determined to do something, he wasn’t going
to sleep until he got it done.
When he was finished changing the flat, he slammed
of snow-capped trees, setting them ablaze in white light as they drew rapidly near.
Sean straightened his arms and pressed his back deeply into his seat to brace for
impact as his heart punished his chest. A wicked jolt brought all momentum to an
abrupt halt, peeling him from the vinyl beneath him for a moment before he collapsed
back down into a seated position.
Deep breaths spewed from his lungs as his large eyes surveyed the white, heavy branches
that now draped over the hood of his car. Snow continued to fall in dense particles.
He watched in silence as they landed on his windshield.
Once the glaze that coated his eyes began to evaporate, he formed a fist and angrily
hammered it across the top of his dashboard. From under his seat, he retrieved a
twelve-inch-long black Mag flashlight. He flipped it on, surprised the beam was strong
as it was considering he couldn’t remember the last time he had replaced its batteries.
He tugged on the inside door handle and was relieved that he could swing the door
open without any problems. It was a good sign that the frame of his car was spared
significant damage. He carefully pulled himself out into the cold and kept a hand
on the hood for balance as he shuffled his way on uncertain footing to the front
of the car.
His eyes winced to keep the snow and chilly breeze from bringing them to tears as
he stood at the edge of a small ditch. Ducking under the thick limbs full of snow,
he leaned around to the grill of the car and spotted no damage. He’d assumed he had
struck the trunk of a tree head-on, but he hadn’t. He’d stopped a couple of feet
short of it.
He made his way to the other side of the car, where he discovered the real obstruction—a
large, rounded rock just outside of the ditch at the shoulder of the road. His tire
had nailed it squarely and was now completely flat.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
The truth was that it could have been far worse. A new tire was at least a manageable
expense; a new car was not. Even luckier was Roy Hughes.
Hughes had probably already turned in for the evening, being on an early-morning
delivery schedule. He was probably fast asleep under warm, comfortable covers, smack
dab in the middle of some dream about the next hit-piece he would run on Sean. He
was safe, at least for now.
Sean popped his trunk and pushed aside piles of wadded up clothes, gear, and trash
until he’d freed up enough room to pull out his spare tire and the metal jack underneath
it. He recalled the day he had first learned to change a tire. His uncle had taught
him the skill when he was around ten years old—the kind of training that normally
would have been carried out by one’s father. By then, Sean’s father had already left.
“Patience. . .” Zed would tell Sean when he’d have trouble lining up the jack or
threading the lug nuts back on correctly. “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”
Zed claimed to have come up with the quote, but Sean always suspected he was fibbing.
Still, it begrudgingly seemed to be the right advice as Sean had worked on removing
the flat back then. The irony of the scene wasn’t lost on him. He half suspected
that from high above, his uncle had had something to do with blowing out the tire.
Maybe it was the crispness of the air or the calmness that came with the solitude
surrounding him, but he managed to regain his temperament and clear his head. His
thoughts went back to Jessica.
He couldn’t bring himself to understand quite why he had taken such an interest in
her. She was largely a stranger—someone who hadn’t given him any reason to care about
her. Yet, the image of tears streaming down her face wouldn’t leave his mind. He
was determined to get a copy of that newspaper and figure out what had triggered
the episode. And once Sean Coleman was determined to do something, he wasn’t going
to sleep until he got it done.
When he was finished changing the flat, he slammed
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