Oops! Această imagine nu respectă Ghidul de Conținut. Pentru a continua publicarea, te rugăm să înlături imaginea sau să încarci o altă imagine.
Oops! Această imagine nu respectă Ghidul de Conținut. Pentru a continua publicarea, te rugăm să înlături imaginea sau să încarci o altă imagine.
A singular road led out of Spindler Hills.
It spanned the length of the town, an artery thick among veins of street. Carved through the road were the train tracks, the very same that Clay watched every day on his lunch break at Signy's, and there was a note of finality as they thundered over the metal ridges at their point of intersection. With it came the lurch of Clay's body, his stomach plummeting like a stone cast down a well, sending a ripple through his very core.
He had never left the boundary lines of Spindler, which stretched a distance to the highway, outer limits marked by a signpost on two rusted metal pipes. Yet he did not linger on this thought, lost in the thicket of all that had conspired. Everything considered, leaving now felt as natural as breathing.
Welcome to Spindler Hills.
A singular statement with nothing else to discern it from the other squat little towns that bordered Route 97. Spindler was not known for its dried oil wells or as the birth place of anyone notable. It was a blip on the map, the kind of place one stopped on the way to somewhere greater, though not without a passing comment of disparagement.
They sped past the marker and Clay shifted in his seat, staring at the sign through the side-view mirror. It illuminated briefly, bright red from the tail lights, before disappearing.
Kinga's foot was low on the gas, hurtling the car forward a mile a minute. As much as it shook Clay's insides, he was remiss to ask her to slow down. Kinga didn't seem the kind to see an open road without needing to race her own shadow. Spindler Hills fell away, collapsing in on itself like a sandcastle eroded by the rising tide. The squat buildings merged together until they formed an amorphous shape amidst the arid surrounds, before becoming nothing.
Swallowed by the dark of night.
They had hardly exchanged a word since piling into the Boss 429. Inside, a few old coffee cups were squashed in the side pockets of the doors, some plastic wrappers scrunched and askew at his feet. Kinga reached over before starting up and shoved them into the glovebox.
Clay barely registered this. He had been focused on the absence of the garbage bags he had seen the first day they had met. Come to think of it, she had initially arrived in a completely different car. All that sat on the backseat were some folded clothes, a pair of boots and a leather doctor's bag. He brushed away the thought, forcing himself not to linger on the implications of their omission.
