“No,” Stephen smiled. “I was just splashing some water to cool down.” He reached down and flicked a little water onto his boy.
“Hey!” Ethan grumbled in mock protest, pulling his baseball cap back down.
Stephen gave a small chuckle at how the high country weather acted like a tranquilizer for his usually high-energy boy. Stephen had brought his family to the mountains for one last family trip before the school year started up again. In the high Uintah mountains of northeastern Utah, the extremes of Fall were already apparent. The nights could easily dip near freezing temperatures. Then the afternoons would see the thin air heat rapidly and reach nearly seventy degrees.
You can’t plan a day this good, Stephen thought.
The sky was almost unnaturally blue. A couple of wispy white cirrus clouds were making their way across the horizon. The pinion pines that line the edges of Mirror Lake stretch toward the heavens as if trying to give credit for creating such a picturesque and peaceful place.
Stephen reeled in his empty fishing line and cast out toward the lakeshore. The fishing had been slow, but Stephen knew the reasons that had brought him a hundred miles from home had little to do with fish.
His mind drifted back to a conversation with his wife, Samantha. It was late on a Sunday night shortly after last school year had ended.
“I can’t believe Ethan is going to be in Junior High,” Samantha offered with a nonchalance that Stephen knew meant it was anything but a casual statement.
“Yeah. He is really growing up,” Stephen responded.
“Do you think he’s really ready for junior high?”
“Sure he is,” Stephen answered with as much reassurance as he could muster. “He’s always been a good student and never really had a problem.”
“I know. It’s just that it’s . . . well, you remember what junior high was like. Kids can be so mean to each other.”
Stephen laughed a little. “Yeah. I remember Jimmy Davis. … He helped out in the cafeteria so he could get free school lunch. One day some kid in his math class ticked him off. So he snuck a whole pot of spaghetti out the back of the kitchen and somehow he got the kid’s locker open. He scooped it into the pockets of the kid’s jacket and into his gym shoes. Oh and then he put the meatballs in the kid’s jockstrap in his gym bag.” Stephen couldn’t hide his sly grin.
“You’re not helping, Steve,” Samantha said as she poked him in the ribs.
“What? Do you want me to tell you that Ethan is never going to be teased, never going to have a single hard day in junior high?”
“Well, I was hoping.”
“Sam, listen to me.” Stephen grew serious. “Ethan is a good kid. He has good friends and our junior high is a good school. We’ve done all we can do to help Ethan succeed. Now he has to keep growing up—and junior high is a part of that.”
Stephen knew that only part of the issue was sending their oldest of three off to the scary world of junior high. Samantha had always been one who liked her comfort zone. Not that she hated change, but there was always a fear that when things change they wouldn’t be as good as they had been.
“You’re right,” Samantha finally said after a long pause. “It’s this feeling like we’re leaving . . . like we’re crossing some line that we can never turn back.”
“Yeah, but some lines are definitely worth crossing. Like when Sarah finally got out of diapers. That was a great day.”
Samantha broke into a wide grin. She truly loved Stephen’s sense of humor and how he could always get her to smile when she was feeling worried.
The sudden tug on Ethan’s pole brought Stephen back to the present. Ethan felt it too and immediately snapped out of his afternoon nap. Stephen was thrilled to see the intense smile on his boy’s face. He watched as Ethan worked the line exactly as he’d been taught. A good sized brown trout broke the surface of the water, thrashing to get free of the line. Father and son spontaneously let out a “Wahoo!” in unison. Stephen grabbed the net and nodded encouragement to his son. As the fish neared the side of the canoe, Stephen leaned over to scoop it up.
“Careful not to tip us over,” dad gently reminded son.
“How big do you think?” Ethan asked eagerly.
“I’d say at least a twelve incher.”
Ethan’s face beamed. “That’s the biggest one so far.”
“Sounds like a fish story to me,” Stephen joked as he patted his son on the shoulder.
The father and son team paddled their canoe smoothly toward the southeast tip of the little mountain lake. They were camped in the National Forest Service campground. Stephen remembered being a little surprised when he discovered there were still sites available. His checking had been the end result of his late Sunday conversation with Samantha. She wanted to plan a trip—a real “memory making” trip. They had discussed several options, but in the end decided it should be someplace completely new. Stephen had been to Mirror Lake once when he was a young man. Samantha jumped at the suggestion and description of the picturesque lake.
The canoe slid gently onto the shore. Ethan stood up to step out of the bow. “Be careful, don’t get your boots wet.” Stephen cautioned.
Ethan turned around, hands on hips. “Duh, Dad.”
“Sorry. I know, you’re right. You’re not five anymore.”
Stephen watched as Ethan stepped onto shore and then as if to prove his adolescent strength, he grabbed the bow of the boat and slid it another three feet up the shore.“Impressive,” Stephen complimented.
Ethan played along and flexed his muscles in over dramatic fashion. Father and son laughed together as they secured the canoe on the shore and headed back to camp to show off their fish to the family.
~~~~~
Vince Spackman lived in a tiny bottom floor apartment on the west side of Salt Lake City. The bottom floor of the three-story building was a half basement style where you have to step down four steps to reach the front door. The few windows were obscured from most direct sunlight by scraggy shrubs. And any light that did reach the windows was shut out by Vince’s tightly drawn blinds.
It was Tuesday afternoon. Vince had been expected at work three and a half hours earlier. He had made no call to work. He hadn’t so much as switched on a single light switch.
Vince sat silently in the dark of his small living room. He sat on the gray couch, where he had sat all night. He had slept very little over the last few weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind would flood with a thousand worries at once. Some were very rational—like knowing that any day his boss would certainly fire him. Some were not.
His thoughts were a constant swirl of almost incoherent voices. It had become easier to keep his eyes open. Mindless television and the sound of neighbors through the walls helped to pass the evening hours. But the silence of the early morning hours was torturous. Any clock that ticked in any audible degree had long ago been smashed into silence.
Only a few years earlier during long sleepless nights, Vince used to talk to himself. He tried the “reprogramming” language that therapists had offered as help. Most often these attempts degraded quickly into combative arguments. Poison would start pouring out of his mouth. Things that Vince had never spoken were suddenly at the tip of his tongue. What he really thought of his boss. All the ways his parents had ruined his life. How his perfect brother was the world’s biggest hypocrite.
Without even realizing, Vince’s voice would raise into an emotional scream. The police had visited his apartment late at night more than once. It would always turn out the same. Vince would convince them he had simply fallen asleep with the TV on and they would tell him he had to keep it down.
But Vince didn’t argue with himself anymore. The darkness now overwhelmed him. The will to fight it had given way to surrender—even embracing the dark. The anger and hatred had lost their edge. Getting out of bed could be overwhelming. It had only been two days ago that Vince found himself wondering if he should just wet the bed rather than go through the effort of walking to the bathroom.
Occasionally there would be more lucid moments—moments when he knew he needed help. Moments when he would force himself out the door. He had even paid his parents a visit last week.
“Vince?” His mom stood at the door in obvious disbelief.
“Yeah, Mom, I need a place to crash for a while.”
“Oh … did something happen with your apartment?”
Vince knew what she was thinking. “No. Mom. I didn’t say I needed to move in.”
“Well, that’s not what I thought.”
“Can’t a son visit his childhood home? Or am I not welcome here anymore?”
She hadn’t seen Vince in almost a year. His hair was longer now, down to his shoulders. It hung over his face and covered his dark brown eyes. A scraggy goatee hid almost any hint of a facial expression.
“Vince,” his mother tried to sound as compassionate as she could, “you know you are always welcome.”
Mr. Spackman was still at work and wouldn’t be home for an hour yet. Mrs. Spackman made her way to the kitchen and immediately began trying to turn dinner for two into dinner for three. As she went into the basement to retrieve a can of soup, Vince slipped from the living room down the hall into his parent’s bedroom.
Silently he opened his dad’s closet. On the top shelf in the farthest corner sat a dusty, black shoebox. Vince carefully slid the box off the shelf. It was as Vince had hoped. He knew the 357 revolver was always in the box, but lying next to it were two boxes of shells. He slipped the ammunition into the pockets of his baggy jeans.
He picked up the gun and felt the weight of it in his hand. His thumb instinctively reached up and cocked the hammer.
How stupid is dad? he thought as he raised the gun and spun the cylinder to make sure it wasn’t loaded.
Just load it right now.
Vince shook his head violently. He groaned and gritted his teeth.
Oughta put a bullet in her head too. You know she deserves it.
Vince put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer harmlessly clicked down on the empty chamber. He shook his head violently once more and slid the revolver into the waist of his pants. He pulled his shirt down to cover the bulge. Then carefully he replaced the shoebox.
As he came down the hall, he could hear his mom was in the kitchen again. He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and flushed the toilet. Then opened the door and returned to the living room. As he sat down on the couch, the revolver dug into his stomach. It was painfully uncomfortable. But Vince didn’t move. There was something oddly comforting about pain that could find its way through the numbness.
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Spackman stepped from the kitchen to the living room. She built up the courage to attempt a conversation, but the room was empty. She looked out the front window and saw Vince’s Honda pulling out of the driveway.
In the darkness of Vince’s apartment, the revolver and one shell sat on the coffee table. Vince’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed. He stared at the table and scratched his goatee.
Chapter 2
“Aw, c’mon, Mom” Ethan begged.Samantha looked at Stephen hoping for some help. He gave her a shrug that she knew meant “You’re on your own on this one.”
“Ethan, I don’t think that it’s a good idea.” Samantha could tell this was one of those rites of passage moments. Her little boy was wanting to spread his wings, to take advantage of privileges that were off limits even a year ago. She knew she couldn’t keep him a little boy forever. But this was not like he was asking to sleep over at a friend’s house.
“Mom, you’re not being fair.”
“Look, I know you could hike the distance—that’s not even the issue for me.”
“Then what is?”
“Well, frankly, it’s that neither of you are familiar with this area at all. You see a lake on the map and think that it’s like walking around the block at home.”
“Mom, we’re not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were. I am simply pointing out that it may not be a simple as you think. What would you do if it took you longer than you thought to get there, do your fishing, and get back? What if it started getting dark?”
“Mom!” Ethan groaned. Stephen could see he needed to step in.
“Ethan, you know what, Mom is right. It’s been years since I was up here. I don’t exactly remember the way. It really could turn into a dangerous situation.”
Ethan couldn’t believe his dad was taking mom’s side. “Dangerous?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, dangerous. And besides there are plenty of fish that need catching right here in Mirror Lake.”
Ethan knew the discussion was over. He stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot.
“I’ll tell you what, Ethan,” Stephen offered. “Why don’t we get up really early before sunrise. The fishing will be great then.”
“Dad can I come too?” Brandon asked.
Ethan shot his dad a look. Stephen smiled at Ethan hoping he would understand. “Of course, you can come. But you’ve got to get right up. Those fish won’t wait for little boys who are too sleepy.”
Ethan cocked his head sideways and let out a sigh.
“I’ll get right up, Dad,” Brandon said excitedly.
The family stayed up playing card games by lantern light until the cool night air began to be uncomfortably cold. Samantha got the kids settled into the tent while Stephen heated a little pot of water on the camp stove. She came out and joined him for a cup of hot cocoa.
“So did you really want to hike to that lake?” Samantha asked as she sat down to her steaming cup.
“Well, when he suggested it, I thought it might be a good chance for him to feel like he was getting to do, ya know, a grown-up manly thing.”
“Do you even know if there’s a well marked trail?”
“I haven’t made that hike since I was Ethan’s age. But if I remember right, there was a good trail.”
Samantha pushed back a lock of her dark hair and tucked it behind her ear. Slowly she sipped her cocoa. “Well, I just don’t feel good about it. I’d be worried sick all day.”
“Sam, we decided not to go. Remember?”
“I know. But I could tell he really wanted to go. And you said before we came that you wanted to make sure the two of you had some good one-on-one time.”
“We had some great one on one time today. And we still have three more days before we head home.”
Samantha paused again and sipped her cocoa. “So, do you think he’s gonna be alright? You know, being a teenager and all.”
“Yeah. He’s gonna be alright.”
~~~~~~~
Ethan rolled over inside his sleeping bag. The early morning air was so brisk it almost burned his nose. He sniffled and opened one eye. Although the tent was still very dark, he could sense that the sky outside was giving the first hints of the new day.
Though he was quite groggy, he remembered his dad’s promise of early morning fishing. The whole campground was so quiet, he knew that most if not all of their neighbors were still sleeping. He could even hear one robust snore in the distance. He wiggled one arm out of his bag and reached over to his dad. With a gentle nudge he said, “Dad … Dad … Dad, its time to get going.”
Stephen lifted his head off his camp pillow about one inch. “Huh, yeah, sure.” Then his head went right back down on the pillow.
“C’mon, Dad. Remember what you told Brandon. ‘The fish won’t wait for little boys who are too sleepy.’”
“OK, OK. You get the gear together and I’ll be right there.”
Ethan knew it wouldn’t be long before other fishermen would be following the same plan. So he hurriedly found a sweatshirt in his bag that sat right beside his sleeping bag. He pulled on a pair of jeans and stood to unzip the tent door. He looked down at his dad who was barely stirring. As he was about to give him a good nudge with his foot, his dad lifted his head and said, “Open it quietly. Lets try to keep your mom and little sister asleep.”
“And little brother too,” Ethan added.
Stephen scowled at his oldest boy. Ethan was usually very good natured about letting Brandon tag along and try new things even though it sometimes meant slowing down to wait. Stephen knew what Ethan was thinking and that he would have little patience in this situation.
“Just get the stuff ready. We’ll be ready to go.”
With that Ethan carefully unzipped the tent door, slipped his shoes on, and stepped out. As he zipped the door back up, he saw his dad lay his head back down on his pillow.
~~~~~~
Vince had let hour after hour slip by in silence. The voices in his head even seemed to be growing tired. He stood up from his filthy grey couch and nearly collapsed. His head was dizzy and his legs felt numb. Stumbling over to the wall, he braced himself until the sensation passed.
He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A loaf of bread, a half gallon of milk, ketchup, and 24 cans of Coke. Vince grabbed a can of soda and cracked it open. He drank the entire contents in three swallows.
A small shaft of sunlight spilled in through a small slit in the living room curtains. Vince was surprised that it was morning. Then a thought surprised him—a memory from his childhood. It was only a flash, a photograph taken by his mind that had faded almost completely away.
Vince froze.
It was a moment of clarity. So much confusion. So much despair. Clouded thoughts and darkness. And standing there in the same apartment that had held him captive for days now, Vince felt the smallest wave of freedom. He knew it would not last long.
Almost unconsciously, he went to his spare bedroom. The room was almost impenetrable, junk was strewn from shelves against the wall, stacked on top of boxes that had never been opened since the last move, and covered nearly the entire floor. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything in the room.
Vince pushed things out of the way with his feet, then leaning over a large stack of boxes, he reached to the top shelf. He pulled down an old sleeping bag and tossed it behind him toward the door. Pushing aside a box to see the shelves more clearly, Vince suddenly became frenzied.
Freak. What do you think you’re doing? Having your spleen ripped from your belly and eaten by some hairy animal is better than a bullet? Whatever.
“Where’s the stupid tent!” Vince threw down another box and ripped open the top of the next. Another box was filled with old computer parts. Vince tossed them aside and heard something break inside. Without pausing, he stepped over a pile of clothes and picked up an old coat. There on the floor was a barely-used camping tent. Vince snatched it up and headed for the door. He scooped up the sleeping bag and headed into his bedroom. Grabbing a backpack he used to carry his uniform to work, he dumped out its contents on the bed. From the closet he grabbed a flannel shirt, a baseball cap, and a pair of jeans.
They won’t find the body for months. For years. Maggots or coyotes—doesn’t even matter. Rotting flesh, nothing but teeth and bones. Wonder if I could tie my hand up so it’s givin’ the bird when they find me.
Vince pulled on his work boots, they were stained with grease and oil but were much more rugged than the old pair of tennis shoes he wore most days.
As he swung the backpack off the bed, it clipped the box of 357 shells on the dresser and spilled them all over the floor. Vince stopped. He stared at the shells and the strange pattern they made on the carpet.
Don’t go freeze to death, maggot face. Or starve. Be a man and take the gun. Clean. Click and gone. Squeeze it that’s it.
Rage boiled up inside Vince. He growled and slammed his forehead into the wall. Again he banged his head into the wall. Again. Then he stooped down and started picking up shells by the handful. He threw them into the backpack, even more frenzied than when he was looking for the tent. It was as if he were making a quick escape, running, panicked.
With the shells picked up, he slid the pack over one shoulder, lifted the sleeping bag and held it under one arm and picked up the tent. He went into the living room and picked up the revolver and slid it into the waist of his jeans. Looking quickly around the room, he checked his pocket for his car keys. Then he went to the fridge and pulled out two cans of Coke and put them in his pack.
As he swung his apartment door open, the brightness of the day was blinding. He squinted and shaded his eyes with one hand. He let his eyes adjust to the light for a moment, then with the same urgency that seemed as though he were being chased, he hurried to his car. Tossing his gear in the back, he jumped in the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Chapter 3
Just then Ethan heard the familiar sound of his father snoring. Ethan let out an exasperated sigh. He looked over at the tent, then out at the water. Scooping up his pole and tackle box, he muttered sarcastically, “I’ll be right there, huh?”
The trail down to the lake wound between two other campsites. Ethan could hear the other families still sleeping in their tents. His excitement was building as he realized he could be the first to the lake. Carefully, he stepped down the slope from the camp area to the trail that circled the lake.
Ethan knew right where he wanted to go. On the north end of the lake, the shoreline was quite rocky with several large boulders right on the water’s edge. Ethan was sure he could find some hungry fish hiding there.
Below the campsites, the trail that circles Mirror Lake is a boardwalk over the marshy, muddy edge of the lake. Ethan excitedly hopped onto the wooden planks and looked out across the perfectly still lake. A ripple or two were barely visible in the hazy early morning light. Everything was so quiet, Ethan could hear his own footsteps echoing as he rounded the trail away from the campsites.
He was disappointed that his dad had not kept his word about getting up early. But he was also happy not to have Brandon tagging along. Brandon would have been so keyed up he would have been chattering a million miles an hour. Maybe it was better that he was on his own.
As the trail rounded away from the campsites toward the rocky edge at the north end, Ethan’s heart dropped. He heard the unmistakable sound of a line being cast.
No! Someone is already in my spot, Ethan thought as all of his excitement drained right away. If Dad would’ve gotten up early like he said, we could have been out here in time.
Ethan quickened his pace around the bend until he could see the back of not just one, but three fishermen, occupying the exact spot he’d picked out the day before. Ethan’s shoulders sagged and he let his head hang as if his neck were made of rubber. He knew he couldn’t crowd in with three other fishermen. And even if he could, he knew they’d give him that “who do you think you are?” look. Ethan hated that.
Unable to think of any better option, Ethan stopped about twenty feet short of the other men. He found a spot right off the trail between two trees that seemed OK.
With less enthusiasm than he’d had moments before, he set down his tackle box and cast his line out into the dark, still water. Slowly, he worked the line like he’d been taught. Reeling in the lure just enough to make it swirl and float like it was alive, he watched for the faintest hint of a tug on the line.
As he was casting his line out for the third time, there was a distinct splash to Ethan’s right. He leaned forward to look around the tree. One of the men fishing from the rocks was scooping up a big trout with his net. The two other fishermen looked over and smiled at their friend.
That oughta be my fish! Ethan grumbled to himself.
Ethan jammed his pole down between a couple of rocks so it could stand up on its own. He sat down on a large rock and leaned forward to rest his chin in his hands. He stared out at the water. The sun was still below the eastern horizon and the lake looked like a scene from a movie. A light mist hung over the water and the water looked dark and ominous. Ethan glanced up at the sky. There were a few clouds that were beginning to glow with the first hints of dawn.
Ethan checked his line. Motionless. He knew that no fish would take a lure that wasn’t moving, but for the most part he didn’t care right now. It would almost be better if he didn’t catch anything. Dad would feel less guilty if I came back with a grunt load of fish.
At the far end of the lake, an older man was prepping his float tube to launch out into the chilly water. Ethan watched him slide his tube down to the water’s edge. He stopped to load a few things into the pockets of his fishing vest.Ethan didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right behind him. A young couple came walking up, fishing poles in hand. They stopped not more than five feet down the trail and Ethan heard the husband whisper, “This looks like a good spot.” She giggled and they kissed.
Great! Ethan thought. Lovebirds. Just what I needed.
For the next fifteen minutes, Ethan tried to ignore the couple as the husband taught his “sweetie” how to cast her line and as he explained the advantages of “live bait.” She was not very coordinated and somehow thought everything she did was funny. Ethan could tell she was only trying to get her husband to do everything for her.
Ethan picked up his pole and began reeling in his line. Man, it would’ve been so much better if Mom wouldn’t have pitched a fit over me and dad taking a little hike to the other lake. ‘What if the trail isn’t a good one? What if you guys can’t get back before dark?’ What if you didn’t freak out about everything.
The lure came up out of the water and Ethan wound up for a big cast. As he let it fly, the line caught and the lure whipped down awkwardly a few feet out in the water.
The happy couple both looked over. She giggled of course, and he tried to hide a smile.
Jerks.
~~~~~~~~
Vince was starving. His Honda sped eastbound along I-80 at 70 mph heading toward the face of the Wasatch mountain range. He checked the highway sign for the next exit. Two miles.
The morning sun created a glare off the Honda’s filthy windshield. Vince could barely make out the exit sign in the distance. He twisted the turn signal to squirt washer fluid onto the windshield. The pump squealed as it spit out the last few drops of fluid and the wipers smeared it into a blinding mess.
“Sonofa—“ he yelled.
Twisting the wipers onto high only made the problem worse. Vince ducked and bobbed his head trying to see anything through the glare. Suddenly, a pair of brake lights appeared out of nowhere. The Honda’s tires locked up and the car began to slide sideways. A fraction of a second before impact, Vince let off the brake and swerved violently into the emergency lane. Slamming on the brakes again, he skidded the car to a complete stop.
He lay slumped over the steering wheel for a long minute. His heart was pounding and he was out of breath. Then it happened again. A boyhood memory. The sound of the breeze as it pushes its way through towering pines. The musty smell of a tent that has been in storage too long.
Vince sat up. He looked at the windshield and ran his hand through his long hair. Rummaging through the back seat, he found an old water bottle with a little water still in the bottom. He opened his door and poured the water onto the windshield. The wipers swished back and forth and in a second Vince could see again.
Traffic was light. He had no problem pulling back into the exit lane and making his way down the ramp.
Vince pulled into the 7-11 parking lot and turned off the engine. He looked down at the 357 which he had shoved down between the parking brake and the passenger seat.
Don’t leave the gun in the car. Take it in.
Vince looked around. No one else was in the parking lot. He reached down and slipped the revolver into the waist of his jeans.
Inside the 7-11, Vince made no eye contact with the clerk. He went straight to the freezer and pulled out two breakfast burritos. He popped open the end of each plastic wrapper and placed them in the microwave. After he hit start, he made his way to the snack isle. He grabbed several candy bars, a couple granola bars, and a bag of chips. Next he filled up a 32-ounce cup with Coke and ice.
The microwave beeped and Vince took out the burritos. At the counter, the clerk rang up the food. Vince looked over and saw some pre-packaged deli sandwiches in a case next to the counter.
“Ring me up a couple of these sandwiches, too,” he said pointing to the case.
“Ya gotta bring ‘em over here,” the clerk answered.
Vince shook his head and walked over to the case. He picked up two ham and cheese and walked back to the counter. With an irritated glare, he shoved the sandwiches across to the clerk. Then he took a credit card out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter.
The clerk rang up the sandwiches and slid the card through the reader. He watched the screen for a second, hit a key and slid the card again.
“Sorry, dude, it got rejected,” the clerk said with a little bit of a smirk.
“What!?” Vince demanded incredulously. Almost without thinking, he reached under his shirt and put his hand on the handle of the revolver.
“Your card got denied,” the clerk repeated with an exaggerated slowness.
Vince leaned into the counter. “You don’t want to jerk me around. Try the stupid card again.”
“Whatever you say.”
The clerk slid the card through again. Vince stared at the clerk without taking his hand off the revolver.
“It must be your lucky day.” The clerk said as the receipt began printing out. Vince relaxed and signed the receipt. He took the food out to his car and in a minute he was back on the freeway.
By the time the Coke was gone, Vince had passed through Park City and had turned onto highway 40.
It’s like every other time. Everyone knows you’re nothing but a pathetic loser.
Vince reached down and turned up the radio.
After leaving highway 40, he turned toward the small town of Kamas. It had been years since he had been to the tiny town but the road looked familiar anyway. The fields looked exactly the same. The rolling hills. The old barns and barbed wire fences.
Outside of town, he passed the sign that read “Kamas, Gateway to the Uintahs.” He could see the Sinclair sign ahead on the right. He needed a bathroom.
The young lady behind the counter tried to flash a courteous smile at Vince as he walked in. He didn’t even look at her but went straight to the men’s room.
