Waves of shimmering heat rose off of the broken asphalt.
I mopped my brow.
“Fields gone to weeds.”
“Yep.” Meg had said little beyond single syllables since we had crossed the fence.
We paused in shade where the Smith’s place once was.
Except that the lawn was now a hayfield, it looked fine, until we left. The back half of the barn had collapsed.
That next oasis of trees beckoned.
A quick inspection relieved the worst of our fears.
Looking deeper, I could feel every year since we were evacuated after the accident.
“Home.” Meg had tears in her eyes.
word count = 100
I may not get to many stories this week as I will be journeying home after (Covid enforced) years away and so will be off line.