New Orleans Run

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The young woman halted and spun, her long raven tresses swirling, and stared intently at the benighted landscape to her rear. “I think we’re being followed,” she asserted.

“You’re imagining things,” her companion stated. A brown-haired man in his early twenties, he wore faded jeans, a green shirt, and a denim backpack.

“Didn’t you hear something just now?” the woman asked anxiously. She wore dark blue pants and a matching blouse. Her green eyes narrowed as she tried to pierce the gloom.

“No.”

“I did.”

The man turned and surveyed the rolling expanse of open field they had just traversed. Scant illumination was provided by the quarter moon already several hours high, but he could see well enough to ascertain no one trailed them. “As usual, your nerves are getting the better of you.

We’re not being followed.”

“My nerves are fine, thank you.”

“Come on, Eleanore. You know you become jumpy as when we make these trips.”

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