“Mr. Randall? I‘m from the Realtor’s office about that cabin you are trying to rent. I am happy to report that you have been accepted to stay in it. Now the paperwork has been dealt, with all you have to do is sign the lease and go on your merry way. “A squeaky voice said over the phone. Max smiled as he replied in his good tone of voice, “Excellent and thank you for getting in touch with me; I will be down there to sign the lease this afternoon.”
It was after four when Max got out of the Realtor’s office with the signed lease in hand as he drove home and packed his stuff for a month of living outdoors in the middle of nowhere. He had never been this happy since his wife Marilyn, who at the time was forty five, died along with their only two kids, who were thirty and thirty four at the time of the accident, Bob and Debbie. “Almost four years ago to the day.” He thought bitterly as he hugged a picture of his family smiling at a beach, back when Bob was a little baby and Debbie was a four year old. He hastily packed his stuff into his ‘66 Mustang’s trunk and slammed the trunk door down with its shiny blue paint shimmering in the sunlight, which the sun seemed to have emerged out of the darkness from that morning.
He had hit the road at quarter past six in the afternoon, and made his way to the backwoods Town of Cleaver County. It was as the city folks described it. The mobile homes were on bricks that had seen better days, the clothing hung outside with the dogs tearing through them with bursts of speed that made a cheetah look slow, babies outside playing with sharp and dangerous objects that to them were playthings. He stepped out of his car and was greeted by the sounds of barking dogs, gunfire, and men whooping and hollering. He turned to go back in his
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