The cattle grid comes first.
Metal bars vibrate through the chassis, through my bones.
I see a familiar row of houses to one side.
A rusted frame where a swing once hung.
The echo of a dog’s bark.
Dust-ridden yards, fence leaning slightly to one side.
A tin roof reflects harsh light into my eyes.
Amos removes his sunglasses, passing them across the console.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Better.”
Not just to block the sun, but to muffle the assault of memory on either side of me.
Especially that pub.
My jaw tightens.
Even with the dimmed lenses, I fail to keep my eyes forward.
The building looks smaller than I remember.
My knuckles grip pale and white on the steering wheel.
But Amos never lets go of my hand.
There’s the roadhouse on the corner.
The fuel pump where I once stood.
Bruised face, dirt in my hair.
Praying that I wouldn't be followed.
I swore I’d never set foot here again.
Young Mark appears on the pavement, a ghost of the past.
Waiting. Watching.
Feeling too visible, yet not visible enough.
Not knowing if the next driver will save him or leave him stranded.
I want to rescue that kid so badly.
And you are,says Invisible Sam.
You’re healing him by being here.
The road narrows as we reach the bridge, river flowing beneath us.
