Little Rabbit
by Richard Logsdon

I.    Sunday had been hot, temperatures soaring into the upper nineties. A tall, thin thirty-one year old blonde with glacial blue eyes, Sarah Gray felt drained as she drove her blue Chevy pickup toward the small eastern Idaho town whose squat buildings she could just make out in the distance through gray tufts of accumulating smoke.

 Friday morning, loading only clothing and a few family hand-me-downs, she had left chilly Point Luce, four hundred miles up the Canadian coast from Vancouver. The drive had been breathtaking: the lush green forests; the jagged, solitary coast; the tiny quaint little village where she had stayed in a cottage-style motel her first night. On Saturday, she had driven to Portland and had stayed with a friend she had danced with in Vegas. Now, Sunday, Sarah was driving through a smoky inferno. Had her left tire not blown just outside of Ontario, Oregon, around noon, Sarah would have ended the day somewhere around Salt Lake. 

 In the smoky Idaho heat, Sarah kept her windows down and drank lots of water. Drenched in sweat, she wore a faded red football jersey cut off several inches above her pierced navel, baggy black gym shorts, and dirty white tennis purchased years when she had lived in Las Vegas as a stripper.

 “Pretty damned warm, Sunny Jim,” Sarah said.  Drinking from her water bottle, she felt thickening smoke scratching her throat. As Sarah spoke, the animal yawned. Two years ago, Sarah had bought the Jim as a pup from Father Carrigan, the priest of St. Marks, the small Catholic Church ten miles north of Point Luce. She loved the dog more than anything else in the world. 

 "But what I want to know," she added, glancing at the dog, "is where does all this smoke come from?" As Sarah drove the clouds thickened, cloaking the land and choking the air. “Must be that field burning we read about in that Portland magazine,” she said. “I’ve always hated smoke.”

  Fatigued from travel in unusual heat, she remembered a recurring childhood dream: a dead person, she had journeyed through a dark underworld where flames belched from the ground and black strangling smoke blotted out the light; always, she was rescued by an Angel of God. When she had awoken frightened and sobbing, her mother Ethel had comforted her by saying that God was giving her a vision of hell so that, in later years, Sarah would walk the straight and narrow.

 Well, Lord, she said, forcing concentration onto the road, here I am with my dog on the straight and narrow.  Now what? From the highway, as she looked across flat land dotted with farms, she could see hundreds of acres burning, black smoke vomiting into the sky.  The smoke hung above and around her, making her skin feel sticky and transforming the late afternoon sun into an immense, reddish ball.   It’s like the end of time, Sarah thought with a shudder, insufferable gloom pervading her spirit. Sweet Jesus, it's like the end of time.

 As she scanned the sky, her mind flooded with apocalyptic pictures implanted by her Pentecostal mother during her childhood: images of saints being beaten by demons, of the righteous being bloodily tormented by the unrighteous, of the souls of the damned being poured like water into Hell.  As a child, she had learned that the world would end in flame and judgment, heralding the return of the Son of Man. As the old fear of The Second Coming now seized her, she sensed the face of the Beast forcing itself into her consciousness. Once, as a child, she had seen the face on the edge of a dream. 

Icy claws of panic gripping her soul, Sarah reminded herself not to peer into her mind. She knew that she risked being swallowed by the void of depression lurking just beneath thought. She had fallen in before, and the climb out was always difficult.   

 Sarah pushed her thoughts to the immediate present and remembered reading on the map that the name of the town she was approaching was Largo. Largo, she thought, was a funny name.  She remembered the old Clint Eastwood film High Plains Drifter, in which the hero, Jim Duncan, paints the town of Largo red and renames it Hell.

 II.   Now, at nearly 6:30 in the afternoon, Sarah slowed to drive through the small smoky town of red buildings, her thoughts scrambling like mad spiders. God, help me to hold on, Sarah breathed, reminding herself that these panic attacks always passed. She would take some medication when she stopped to eat. Until then, she would fight the building dread.

 Moving down Main Street, heart racing and mouth dry as cotton, Sarah saw few people.   Most of them, she assured herself, were likely inside watching television or honoring the Sabbath. All the years of her life, even when she stripped in Las Vegas, Sarah had continued to hold Sunday sacred. The only problem with Largo, she nervously noticed, was that there were no churches and crosses.

 As she stopped her truck at the town's one stoplight, Sarah felt the hair on the back of her neck stiffen and, looking to her right, saw a razor-thin woman, middle-aged with long crow-black hair, standing on the sidewalk just outside a garden market.  Hands on hips and mouth set, the woman glared at Sarah. 

 “What in the hell is wrong with her?” Sarah muttered to Jim. When the light changed, Sarah smiled at the woman, waved, and drove on.

 III.  A mile out of town, Red Gus’ Greasy Spoon was a faded red squat wooden one story surrounded by towering oaks and maples. Four cars sat in the parking lot out front, all with Idaho plates.  As Sarah pulled into the lot, she could see neither the tables nor the people inside through the darkened front window.   

       “This is where we rest a bit, Sunny Jim,” Sarah said, turning off the engine but keeping the windows rolled down. “Can’t take you inside this dump or I would,” she said, reaching behind her seat and pulling out a bag of biscuits and a water dish. After filling the dish from one of her bottles and putting the dish and a handful of biscuits on the driver’s seat, Sarah hopped from the truck. Her panic had subsided when she had seen the restaurant.

       Smoke was thicker than ever, and as she approached the door of the restaurant, she glanced to her right. She had seen, out of the corner of her eye, a flicker of white, someone moving in or in front of the trees.  Stopping for an instant, she peered through the smoke but saw nothing. She stood and waited. Still nothing. It was just as she turned to go into the restaurant that a very tall dark complexioned man stepped out from the trees.  He had long black wavy hair and wore a white shirt and white pants. Thought she had trouble seeing him clearly, in the haze of smoke and sun, the man glowed. Wondering if she were lapsing into mild psychosis, Sarah reminded herself to take some medication later on.  

 IV.   Inside the restaurant, a plump and unsmiling red-haired woman with thick black-rimmed glasses and a huge black mole on her neck seated Sarah at an empty booth on the far side of the dining room.   Sliding the cheap red plastic covering to the middle of the table, she studied the menu, whose specialty was grilled rabbit, “seasoned the way you like it.” 

 It was just as she found the section titled “House Specialties” that, looking up, she noticed the three men staring at her. The one nearest Sarah had flaming red-hair, wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans.  At the next table over sat a squat bald man wearing thick glasses and a dirty green sweater with “Oregon” stenciled across the front.  The third was a tall, lean older man with white hair, a crooked, hawk-like nose and squinting black eyes. He wore grave and decent attire and seemed to be sipping lemonade.   Sipping the glass of luke-warm water, Sarah sat back and, as the men took their eyes off her, looked around the restaurant.

      It was a hideous place: reddish-brown fake oak paneling on the walls, a ceiling that reminded her of Styrofoam, and animals heads placed just above the tables. Holy Mother of God, Sarah thought, glancing at the large wolf’s head that hung twenty feet to her right. Across the room was the head of a bear, its yellow and black eyes pointed in her direction.  On the side walls were heads of a deer, a moose, an elk, and a fox. As she studied the trophies, she felt her throat constrict as she noticed a small upside down cross below each head.

      Slightly sickened, resting her head in the palm of her left hand, she examined the menu. Sarah had just made up her mind to leave when she glanced up and noticed the tall, thin black-haired woman that she had seen driving through town pull up a chair and sit across from her.  Smiling hugely, missing a front tooth, the woman looked at Sarah.  The woman’s eyes were two dark holes.

      “Hello,” said Sarah.

      Minutes passed. The older woman stared.

       “Seen you driving through town, little rabbit,” the woman said. The woman had a foul odor about her.

       “Yes, you did,” Sarah responded. The muscles in Sarah’s neck tightened. She hated nicknames.

      The woman paused, looked around, then observed: “Seen you looking at our mighty fine heads and crosses.”

      “That’s right,” said Sarah, lightheaded. “Mighty fine and unusual.”

       The woman scowled.

       “What you think of our crosses?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse and high-pitched. “Why they more unusual than, say, gutting a deer with the claw of a hammer?”

       What kind of question is this? Sarah asked herself.

       “Well, they’re upside down,” Sarah said, growing cold. “Shouldn’t they be right side up?”

       The woman sat back in mock surprise.

       “Well, do fuckin’ tell,” the woman howled.  Then, turning, she bellowed, “Little Rabbit here says our crosses are upside down! Oughta be made right!”

       Sarah squirmed.

       “Well, we gonna make her right,” crowed the redheaded waitress, pointing at Sarah.

       The tall woman turned to Sarah.

       “Gonna kill your fuckin’ dog, put his head up on the wall. What you think of that?” the woman said, emitting a low chuckle.

       Sarah froze. “Please don’t touch my dog,” she said. “Please.”

       “Touch your dog?” the woman quipped. “Hell, little rabbit, we already killed it, cut its head off, and cooked it.”

       Sarah stared at the woman. “No you didn’t,” she asserted. “No. I don’t believe you.”

       After a pause, the woman began again: “Whatever. Now back to the original topic.”

       “Which was?” Sarah asked.

       “Which was,” the woman responded, making a clicking sound in her mouth, “you know why them crosses is upside down?”

 “No, why is them crosses upside down?” Sarah responded.

 Detecting mockery, the older woman hissed. “Guess!” she commanded, reaching over the table and slapping Sarah hard on the shoulder. ‘Guess, little rabbit!”

 Her arm stinging, Sarah looked at the woman and then at the men in the restaurant. All eyes were on her, and panic was returning. How do I get in these situations? Sarah asked herself, wishing she’d just stopped at a market and brought some fruit.

 “Are you Satanists?” The words tumbled out of her mouth, and Sarah knew she had asked the wrong question.

 Silence fell like a lead weight. The men stopped eating, the air conditioner shut off, and the room darkened.

 “’Satanists are you?’ the girl asks,” the woman finally said in a loud voice. “Satanists?”

 “Are you?” Sarah gently insisted.

 “Why the fuck you care!” shouted the old woman, fire dancing in her black eyes. “Now, what else? What else? What else?” She reminded Sarah of an ugly parrot.

 “ ‘What else?’ what”? asked Sarah.

 “The crosses girl, the goddamned crosses! Upside down. Why you think they that way?”

 “Don’t know,” whispered Sarah, her stomach in knots.

 “You know!” the woman shrieked. “Goddamn it, you must know!”

 “No, I don’t know,” reiterated Sarah.

 “Well, then, let me tell you,” said the woman, cackling. “Upside down crosses, used to crucify the elect, is what makes the crops grow, keeps the cattle healthy, ensures healthy births, keeps away disease. Makes me happy. Makes men’s cocks grow big. And Ratbone’s especially.”

 The woman laughed obscenely.

 “Upside down crosses do that?” Sarah asked, unnerved.

 “Upside down crosses honor our god.” The woman straightened in her chair.

 “Your god?” Sarah asked, trembling. The situation resembled a childhood nightmare.

 “Our god!” the dark woman repeated, pounding a large and dirty fist on the table.  Sarah noticed the dirt caked beneath the woman’s fingernails. “Our god! Our god! Whose do you think?!”

 “OK,” responded Sarah, holding up both hands, palms out in a gesture of peace, “ok, your god.”

 The tall woman said nothing for a while.  Then, slowly, she turned in her chair toward the three men. 

 “I think she’ll do, nicely, once we kill her dog,” she said loudly, her words like nails of judgment. “What you think, Bill?”

 Taking an angry bite off a huge leg of raw meat, the redheaded man slowly nodded and grunted: “Get the rabbit, then the dog.”

 “Tony?” she asked the bald one. “Tony, tell us what you think!”

 “She’ll do, oh, hell, yes, she’ll do,” Tony said, nasally, his mouth full of something red and mushy. Sarah noted that food had spilled over onto this man’s chin. “Fuck the dog.”

 “Ratbone?” the woman addressed the white-haired man, her tone deferential. “What does the Ratbone think?”

 “Yes,” Ratbone said with calm dignity. “Yes. You’ve done well this time.” Ratbone reminded Sarah of pictures of albinos.   

       Ghastly white, Ratbone slowly rose and, as he approached Sarah’s table, the other two men rose as well. Ratbone looked down at Sarah.

       “What is your name, little rabbit?” said grave older gentleman.

       Rat’s voice was booming, guttural, and exploded right through Sarah.

       “Sarah,” Sarah squeaked. “Sarah Gray.” Her mouth was dry.

       Rat Sarah, his eyes cold, black, distant.

       “What is this about?” Sarah quivered.  “What do you mean ‘She’ll do’? Do what?”

       Rat smiled, leaned over, put his hands on the table, his large fingers splayed as if he were fighting for balance.

       “Don’t you know?” the man growled. “I mean, really, Sarah.”

       “No,” Sarah shook, “I don’t.”

       Rat paused and cleared his throat, looked at the others, then back at Sarah.

       “You were sent to us through the dark labyrinth of time,” said Rat. “Bell here told me, and Bell is the messenger,” he added, nodding towards the tall woman. “She saw you in a dream seven nights straight, bleeding and hanging from a cross, and says she saw you again today. It’s a sure sign, little rabbit, and tonight you’ll meet your calling.”

       These people talk crazy,and they are evil, Sarah thought. She knew it was time to make her move, and as Sarah slipped out of her seat and stood, the men smiled and backed away. With forced calm, Sarah walked toward the entrance but after several feet broke into a run. She was a foot from the door and could see Sunny Jim looking when she heard someone bounding over the floor behind her, felt a large, strong hand grab the back of her neck and pull her down. Her head cracked facedown on the wood, and as she glanced back, bleeding from the nose, she saw Bill grinning and towering over her, the others gathering around.

    Stepping forward, Ratbone crouched, his face inches from hers, and looked into her eyes. Sarah cringed, for the man exuded the odor of burnt flesh. The fading light bulb just above him gave him a darkly ethereal glow.

      “Don’t be rude, Sarah, do not be rude,” he said, wagging a long dirty finger in her face. “It’s so rude to run away from your friends.”

       Bleeding and dazed, Sarah could no longer remember where she was.

       “Please, please, let me go,” she whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”

       “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said the dark woman, standing just behind Ratbone.

        “And besides, the night has only begun,” Rat said, slowly standing. “Don’t want to miss the fun, do you, little rabbit? What’s a little fun without our friend Sarah Gray?”

With a nod from Ratbone, Bell and Tony approached Sarah and, each taking an arm, easily lifted her to her feet. 

 “Bring her out back,” Rat commanded, his eyes boring into Sarah’s soul.

 IV.       Sobbing, trembling, bleeding, Sarah was taken through the restaurant, through the dark kitchen and out the back screen door.   Once on the porch outside, she looked at the smoky night and saw the still burning fields. Sarah knew that she would never see her mother again. Then, through smoke and darkness, standing at the top of the steps, Sarah saw a wooden cross lying on the dirt no more than twenty feet away, the horizontal beam attached to a pulley, which was in turn hooked up to a small hoist. The foot of the cross pointed toward the restaurant. The waitress stood at the foot of the cross and smiled. 

       “Oh, my sweet Savior,” Sarah whimpered.

      “See that, Sarah Gray?” the tall woman asked, grabbing the hair on the back of Sarah’s head, yanking her head up, and forcing her to look at the cross.  “That’s for you.  Just like your Jesus. Only you gonna be upside down. Which is like the apostles. Blood goin’ backwards.  Which is the way we like it. Your blood and death is what is required.”

 Fear shot through Sarah like wild electricity.

 “People don’t do this anymore,” Sarah gasped, her lower jaw flapping numbly. “This c-c-can’t be for real.” Sarah could not catch her breath.

 “Oh, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” laughed the ghastly Rat, who now stood in front of her, dark smoke swirling about him, “but it is real. But we’re not normal people. And you are chosen. Guided by a dark, unfading light that emanates from another dimension, we select an innocent female victim every five years and gleefully make a sacrifice to our own dark god. And while I doubt that you are entirely innocent, at least in the traditional sense, your charming naiveté passes understanding, stirs my hatred, and, as far as I am concerned, makes you quite perfect for our little blood-letting.”

 Think, think, think, Sarah said to herself, blood pounding so hard in her brain that she feared feinting.  Next to the cross she noticed lengths of black rope, a large hammer, and several long nails. Her legs wobbly, Sarah leaned against the tall woman, who held her hard.

 “Let us proceed,” said Mr. Rat. “Let us, as the master would have us do, get on with the show. It is growing late.”

  Forced to the ground at the bottom of the steps, Sarah was brutally dragged by her feet across rough, rocky soil, her sweater ripped to shreds. She felt her back bleeding. Once she had been pulled next to the cross, Bell grabbed Sarah’s in a headlock as the three men removed Sarah’s sweater and shorts. Then, taking her arms and legs, they lifted and centered Sarah over and onto the cross.   Placed on the grainy wood, Sarah’s hands were bound to the horizontal beam with thick black rope. The same was done with her legs.  

       Oh, God, no; God, no; God, God no,” thought Sarah, feeling born out of time, wondering if she had lost the gift of speech, wanting to say something.  

      She knew what must be next. While Bill held her right arm, Tony picked up the hammer, centered a nail, and, in four mighty blows, pounded the nail through her right wrist. Forced to watch by the dark woman, who braced her head, Sarah saw her flesh pierced with each blow, blood spraying in fine, short bursts.  Each blow felt like a lightning bolt exploding in her brain, and with each blow, Sarah shrieked. 

 Strength draining from her, she saw the two men walk around to the other arm, felt Bell twist her head and make her watch again, and saw and felt the nail pierce her left wrist. Again, as the nail cut flesh and moved toward wood, her wrist erupted in bloody spray.

 Blood streaming from the wounds, Sarah panted like an animal.

 Waiting for the nail to be driven into the region of her ankles, she silently prayed. “Merciful God,” she muttered, envisioning herself kneeling at the altar in the old Pentecostal church in Maine, “come quickly. Come, Lord of Hosts, and help me in my time of need.  Destroy these people as I watch, dear God, or let me die.” She watched the men go to the base of the cross, watched Tony center the nail just above the ball of the foot and pound the nail into the flesh and through bone, meat, and gristle of first her left, then her right foot. Looking at her feet, Sarah saw her ankles explode in a crimson shower.  Weeping uncontrollably, Sarah suddenly knew the complete darkness of abandonment. 

 Where are you God? she silently shouted; where are you? With the cross tilted slightly, she felt the blood running up her legs.

 Please, God, please, Sarah thought. Her eyes open, she saw Ratbone standing at her feet, holding the rope attached to the pulley dangling ten feet over the base of the cross.   As Rat pulled the rope, Sarah felt herself sickeningly titled and lifted so that her legs were higher than her feet. She felt the blood trickle over her stomach as Rat walked back towards the restaurant door and tied the rope to a porch column. Then, making sure that Sarah was watching, the grave old gentleman began to unzip his pants.

 This is death, something inside Sarah said.  It was then, out of the corner of her eye, that she caught a flicker of movement, a flash of white, and peering nearly upside down into the darkness bordering the side of the restaurant, she saw a huge glowing shape emerge, then another.  She could barely make the figures out in the smoke.  Their size and height recalled stories about giant angels though they looked like a young men, handsome beyond description: dark-complexioned, long wavy black hair, dressed entirely in white. The tall young men looked down at Sarah and smiled.

  Then, in a flash, the intruders positioned themselves on opposite sides of Bill, Tony, Bell, Mr. Rat, and the waitress.  Only Rat’s face revealed the complete terror that accompanies recognition.  Out of nowhere, the young men produced enormous, shining swords, circled the group, sliced the air repeatedly in perfect time. Then, quickly, the nearest one moved forward, brought his sword over his head, and sliced down. One of the men screamed.  Head and the left arm severed, Bill’s body fell to the ground like a bag of cement.

 The plump waitress began crying hysterically.

 “What the hell’s goin’ on?” asked Tony, terrified and looking at Rat. “Who are these guys, Rat?”

 “You know who we are,” said the one standing furthest from Sarah, his voice soft and low.

  As Tony bolted, the young man furthest from Sarah quickly sprang. As Tony stumbled over his own feet, the young visitor drew back his blade and swung in a horizontal arc.  The sword sang, cleaving Tony’s body in two in a crimson burst of divine fury.

 Flanked by the waitress and Bell, Rat stood immobilized by fear, arms limp at his sides. Bell shrieked, separating herself from Rat, and the waitress dropped to her knees in an act of forced contrition. Stepping forward simultaneously, with clockwork precision, the two avengers swung their swords, severing the women’s heads in a graceful moment of blood-soaked splendor.  Slightly upside down, Sarah thrilled to see the handiwork of a God whom her mother promised would always come to the aid of the righteous.

 Swords in hand, the angels approached Rat as the ghastly pasty white Ratbone fell to his knees.

 “Mercy, gentlemen,” Rat pleaded, his voice a whisper. “Mercy.”  

 The angles looked at Sarah.  “No mercy!” she rasped, the words having barely left her mouth before the furthest angel dropped his sword, seized Rat by the neck and, with one hand, lifted the older man two feet off the ground. Rat made no sound, no struggle as the angel squeezed the life out of him.  Sarah could hear gristle and bone popping as the life left the body of the man in grave and decent attire.

 Redeemed, Sarah allowed herself to close her eyes and imagined that she saw the gates of Heaven opening for her.  From somewhere in the land of her dreams, she heard voices singing praise.  Sarah Gray would live to see another day.

 When she opened her eyes, the angels were gone, and Sarah found herself lying naked and caked in her own drying blood on an old mattress in the dirt yard behind the restaurant. A full moon shone overhead.

 “What the hell is this?” Sarah asked aloud, looking around the yard and seeing no one. Strength returning, she sat up and examined her wrists and ankles. She felt her back. While scars remained, the wounds had been closed.  Then, trembling, she stood.

 Through wisps of dissipating smoke, and Sarah could clearly see the entire yard.   In the center stood the stump of a tree that had been felled years ago. On the stump lay what looked like the rotting carcass of a huge rabbit. Sarah didn’t go closer.

  In the back of the yard, there was a dilapidated shed that looked as if it had not been used for years.   To the side of the shed was an old rusty swing set.

 What the hell is going on? Sarah wondered. Her eyes desperately scanning the ground, she could not find the cross that she had been nailed to. There were no ropes, no nails.   She saw no trace that anyone beside herself had been in the backyard for some time.  The bodies, and the bloodied remains of the bodies, had vanished.

 What the hall has just happened? Sarah asked herself. Did I dream a wild dream?  

 Stunned, Sarah walked in increasingly large circles, looking for something, anything that could confirm the reality of her encounter with evil. This is what you get for having a Pentecostal mother, she told herself just as she noticed a long, flat, shining object on the top step of the porch stairs.  Heart pounding, she slowly approached, and when she reached the porch she could see clear as a bell a large, curved, silvery sword.  Going nearer, picking the thing up, and turning it around in her hands, she noticed the blade bore dark stains and contained words in a language she could not identify.

IV.      Carrying the sword, which was unbelievably light, Sarah wandered the yard behind the restaurant for some time.  Then, her head clearing, she walked around the restaurant to the parking lot.  There, parked in the front, was her truck, its windows down.  She could see no other vehicles, and as she looked up at the restaurant, she could just make out boards nailed over the entrance and the windows. The restaurant looked like it had been closed for years. She could find no sign naming the restaurant.

       In the darkness, as she studied her truck for signs of life, she could see the outline of Sunny Jim. Recognizing her, the dog barked. Approaching the truck, Sarah could see that Jim was just as she had left him, sitting on the front seat, anxiously awaiting her return. 

 Before anything, she gently set the sword on the flat piece of plywood she kept in the back of her pickup. Then, after opening the driver’s door, she reached behind her seat and found her travel bag.  Unzipping it, Sarah pulled out the first shirt and shorts that she could find and put them on. Ready to drive hell bent for leather away from this place, Sarah climbed into her pickup, closed the door, and then eyed the darkness around the restaurant. Something was still there, something horrible, she felt, but she wasn’t going to find out what it was.  

 Reaching under the seat, Sarah pulled forth the extra key and inserted it into the ignition.  The truck started easily, and as she turned on the lights and began backing out, Sarah flicked on the radio. It was a religious station, the radio pouring forth hymns of praise that Sarah remembered from her youth.

 Pulling out onto the highway and taking her truck to seventy, Sarah forced herself to turn from concerns for her own sanity and think about her mother. She still loved her mother. After all, she had sold her house in St. Luce in order to drive across country and return to the home of her birth. While thinking about a reunion involving her mother and some friends from church, she felt the wind blow through blood-caked hair and realized she needed to find a motel. 

 She imagined how the rest of the night would be. After getting a room and washing up, Sarah would call her mother this very night. Then, Sunny Jim lying next to her on bed, Sarah would watch reruns until the early hours of the morning. 

 Things will only get better, Sarah assured herself, taking the truck up to eighty.   Tomorrow or the next day, somewhere in Wyoming or Nebraska, she would find a store and buy her mother a brand new Bible. 

©2001 Richard Logsdon