Wayne threw a right. The van slew the road. Black. Strafe lights. He stamped the brakes, raising slack gravel. He pulled on the smoke stuck to his lips, nothing. One long lusty honk with the flat of his hand. “All out that’s getting out.”
I lifted the bag from between my feet, thanked him. He replied with beery belch. I tumbled out the transit to the tarmac. I could have kissed it. The moon was hanging in the trees. My breath ghosted the air. Beyond, nothing but dead meadow.
(photo: Haltwhistle. nick reeves)