She felt like she’d been running for decades. She barely escaped from that god-awful town and that devil incarnate Terry O’Shea. She knew she’d never go back, but that one day she would. That god-awful sheriff figured she’d drowned. She should have been free forever.
On the flight from Nevada, she unconsciously felt for the button Terry tore off her flannel shirt, even though the shirt was shredded as she made it through the shore thickets. She hadn’t known the guy outside the Gold Dust she told off was a connected high-roller, but he deserved it. Anyhow, they let her go and sent her back and now here she was staring at the Mary Hansen Copper Pathway Memorial plaque erected by the Shriners on her favorite running path.
She pressed the black spray paint nozzle:
If it’s darkness
we’re having, let it be extravagant.