The road into town was a long rehearsal of inventory, the kind of counting you do when you’re trying to keep panic from rising like bile.
One goodwill coat. Two dresses, one too thin for snow. A tinder tin. A small knife. A length of rope that had once been a clothesline. The pouch of money.
And the deed.
The deed felt worst, because it pretended to be hope.
By the time she reached Silver Creek, her shoulders were stiff and her thoughts had worn grooves into her skull. The little town sat tucked between foothills and stubborn rock, the sort of place where gossip traveled faster than the river and lasted longer.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
