Badwater

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There was something odd about the figure coming down the dark road and I was not going to be happy until I could put my eyes on the details.

Walter, stowing the donut bag in his field pack, had not yet noticed.

Uphill of the figure, emergency spotlights cracked the deep night and more could be seen. Big vehicles clogged the road. Adjacent to the road, yellow rope zoned off a large chunk of desert where a tractor-trailer lay on its side. Well uphill of the crash was another roped and spotlit area, occupied by a hulking crane. What was the crane doing off on its lonesome?

I refocused on the figure. “Somebody’s coming. A man, I think. But odd.”

Walter looked, straining to see. “You have young eyes.”

“It’s more a question of what jumps out at you.”

“Cassie, what jumps out at me in the dead of night belongs in the realm of bad poetry.”

I smiled. He would know.

“However,” he said, still peering, “that is an odd gait.”

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