Anaheim Run

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“Listen!” exclaimed the oldest of the trio, an elderly man with a shock of white hair and gray brows. A strong breeze from the west, from the Pacific Ocean, stirred his brown woolen shirt and baggy green pants. The air was exceptionally chilly along the West Coast, even for January.

“I don’t hear nothin’,” commented the youngest of the party, a skinny youth barely out of his teens. Brushing his long black hair from his brown eyes, he scanned the vestige of a road they were following to the north.

Potholes dotted the buckled asphalt, and the surrounding vegetation served as a verdant wall. The wind seemed to shear right through his blue short-sleeved shirt and black trousers. “There’s nothin’ out there,” he commented.

“I knew we should have stuck to the main roads!” complained the young woman lagging slightly behind the two men. Her shoulder-length black hair was being lashed by the gusts, and her blue pants and blouse provided scant protection from the cold.

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