A Journey And An Obligation
Posted: Mon Oct 31, 2016 12:12 pm
Author's Note: Every last word of this is the truth - except for the bits that aren't.
Chapter 1 – What possessed me to do this?
“Why are you doing this again?” Daisy asked, less than patiently.
“You know why – I’ve told you. It’s a favour to… a friend. He’d do it himself…but he wants me to. And I can’t refuse. Let’s just leave it at that.”
On the surface, the request was simple. Inspect and buy a car in Atlanta, and ferry it to northern Massachusetts, then fly home.
His friend had made all the arrangements. The payment for the car was in escrow in Atlanta, and the temporary plates were there as well. All he had to do is inspect it and make sure it wasn’t about to break in half from rust (he’d been told emphatically that nothing else mattered as long as it ran and drove well) then drive it 1100 miles to northern Massachusetts.
Easy-peasy. A couple of days on the road, and then home. A nice road trip through a bit of the United States he had had little contact with, and then a visit with an old friend, then home.
The flight was uneventful, Minneapolis to Chicago to Atlanta. As it was a short enough run, Al hadn’t bothered to get first class, and regretted it. The pushing, shoving and general cattle-car attitudes made him pine for the days when air travel wasn’t a bus with wings. Frankly, he’d have preferred to be on his bus…but driving that out would just leave him with two vehicles to deal with.
Music and writing filled the time in the air and waiting – another few chapters in his memoirs were filed, with a sense of wry amusement. No one knew he was writing this, and that it and his journals were slated to be given to Buck if and when, with instructions for publication. Paranormal, of course – no way in the world was he going to destroy the secrecy his family lived with and he’d learned to respect.
Soon enough, the journey was over, and along with his fellow inmates he was summarily released into the teeming confines of Atlanta Hartsfield.
It was an utter madhouse. The corridors were choked with passengers arriving, departing and generally milling about, and the waiting areas all overflowed with people, not having been designed for the planes they now serviced.
Al shouldered his way through, finally reaching the long underground passage to the baggage area. He’d packed a bag, figuring he was going to be away for a few days, and of course packing tools and emergency materials in case his charge decided to let him down. With luck, he’d never open the bag, but it was here.
He also carried a small, personal item – a twig from Ialin’s willow at his home, its end in a tube of water. Once before she’d traveled with him – and he hoped this would let her find him here to do so again.
Making his way down the half-mile of corridor to baggage claim and eschewing the train (he’d had enough of packed spaces and overcrowding for the moment) he collected his bag (finally) and walked out into the blazing heat and humidity.
95 degrees, and 80% humidity. He’d been in deserts, and the great plains of the Midwest, but this muggy heat was just draining – and had him hoping that the air conditioning in his charge worked, if anything did.
Walking out to the passenger area, he dug out his phone, selected a number, and dialed.
“Mr. Dillingham – I’m at pickup area P2 – where are you?”
“Al, I’m down at P7 – and drop the mister – my name’s Jesse. Come on down – the truck and I are here.”
Oh, well, THAT’s convenient. If it makes it here and back to Dillingham’s place I am pretty-well assured it will make it where it needs to go – especially in THIS heat. Al mused. Nice when the customer cooperates.
Starting to wilt in the heat, he unlimbered the handle on his portmanteau and wheeled off toward the passenger area. As he got there, he spotted his quest – one of the last of the Land-Rover Discovery Is – a 1998. Seeing it, Al remembered the conversation with his friend.
“Mate, I can get you Discovery Is all day every day fifty miles from your house – what’s so special about this one?”
“Al, it’s not what it is that’s special – it’s what it isn’t.
It isn’t rusty. You know as well as I do that that’s about as rare as rocking horse turds – and a lot harder to come by.
My daughter’s always driven LR products – and her present one is about done from rust – I got it too late and couldn’t check the tinworm. This one is going to get proofed nine ways from Hades and hopefully we can keep it as it is. She likes the D1s – I could buy her a D3 or D4, but that’s not on.”
Al remembered the speech – so like his own, but subtly different – a little greyer, a little shallower and very tired. He also couldn’t fault the sentiment – not given what he’d done for Cinnamon.
As he approached, the car’s owner stepped out and waved. Al smiled – this was going to be fun. He loved buying cars, even when they weren’t his to keep except for a little while.
Jesse Dillingham was a tall, stocky black man – Al was reminded of his friend McAdams. Greeting him, he in turn was greeted with the musical drawl of a native Georgian – and immediately liked the man.
“Thanks for picking me up – it’s going to make my life a lot easier.”
“No problem Al – glad to see you, and glad my big girl here’s going to be going to a good home. Let’s get in out of the heat.”
The two men climbed into the cab of the Discovery, and Al was appalled. He’d known the car was a diamond in the rough – but he hadn’t realized how rough that diamond was.
Keeping his face quite neutral, he looked about. The dash was fine, other than a nick or two and the expected sun fading. The centre console was missing its burled walnut trim, the bare plastic showing instead, with a few stray wires poking out around the edges of the shifter bezel.
The carpets were adrift – not terribly worn but nothing anchored. The front seats were torn, and the stitching popped long past repair. The day/night mirror had cracked and lost its fluid, and the headliner was loose in sections. More worrying, the CHECK ENGINE and ABS lights were on – never a good sign.
I was warned about this, and I knew what I was picking up. This old girl is way overdue for some love – and a lot of it. My friend will be busy for a good long time with THIS one. Al thought to himself, with a wry note. He’d bought trucks like this before, and had no room to criticize.
“She’s a beauty, Jesse – quite an old girl, indeed. You owned her long?”
Jesse’s face darkened. “No, I’ve had her less than a year. She was my ‘escape vehicle’ when I got out of the hospital – I’d been in there for two months, and at home for a year before that.
Since I got out, she’s been a fun vehicle for me – but I need to get something a little bigger. I’m sorry as heck to let her go, but…I can’t keep two.
I’m really glad your friend saw my advertisement – I’d had some interest in the old girl, but for one reason or another no one had bought her. I was just as glad – no one was going to show her any love, or it seemed like it.”
Al had noticed the window sticker when he got in the car – a support group for a serious neuromuscular disease. He could see what was happening, and understood the issues.
Jesse in this time had guided the car out of the airport, and onto the highway toward his home. Despite its shabby appearance, the car handled well – no noise, and good pickup and road holding. Jesse accelerated smoothly to 70, and the car sped along the road.
As they went, Jesse filled him in on the history of the car.
“Since I bought it, I’ve cleaned up a lot of little issues it had. It’s had a full service, all the fluids and filters changed, and it’s been on a strict diet of the best I could get for it. She’s high mileage, but doesn’t use oil or leak much.
Your friend knows about the big issues – a bad heater core, bad rear window motors, and the interior. His big interest was the fact she’s rust free – he says he can deal with the rest.”
“He can, rest assured. Really, all I need to do is have a poke at the normally rusty spots, and if they’re as good as they seem to be I can release the escrow and we can complete the transaction.
I’m quite impressed – she moves right along.”
“She’s a great road-trip car – a month ago my wife and I took her to Florida and back – over 700 miles. No problems, no issues, and ran well at 70. When your friend asked if it was up to a ferry run to New England I said yes – no doubt.
She’s all serviced, and ready to go. I checked everything this morning, and topped up what needed it.”
Al was pleased – despite the condition of the interior this was a caring and not duplicitous owner.
A highway run, some stop and go (when the temperature gauge never ascended) and several miles of back roads saw the pair at Jesse’s home. With this, Al went into action. Doffing his fedora and putting on a ball cap, he opened all of the doors on the truck, and armed with his tactical flashlight went to work.
Armed with a Phillips screwdriver he began to poke and pry. The carpets were lifted (and some small amounts of rust found but nothing concerning), the chassis checked, the wheel wells sounded and the rear floor given a regular thrashing with the screwdriver.
All was sound. Even areas expected to fail in the best-kept Rover were sound.
He crawled out, walked over to Jesse, and held out his hand after peeling the rubber glove off it.
“I think we have a deal.”
45 minutes later, banks called, papers exchanged and the car loaded with water and snacks (at Jesse’s insistence) Al pulled out and headed for Route 575 – and New England. Before this, the pair had conversed about the best route – Al having never been in this area and never shy to ask for directions from a local.
Jesse answered the question with a question.
“Al, how much time do you have?”
“My time is my own, more or less. Don’t really want to play tourist, but I’m open to suggestions.”
“At this time of the day, 75 North is going to be a horror show with traffic headed out of Atlanta. If you want to avoid a good chunk of it, I have a suggestion for you.”
“Please, do tell!”
“Go up 575, and get off at Route 140. 140 will take you over and up to 75 much further along – and most of the commuters will be gone by that time.
140 is a classic old highway – two lanes, 55 miles an hour, and it goes through some of the prettiest country around. If you want to enjoy Georgia, go that way.”
Al certainly did want to enjoy it – so he did. Almost.
575 was not an issue, asking at the gas station where he stopped to fuel up (slowly – the tank wasn’t right) got him there.
140, on the other hand, was a snake – it tended to crawl off and hide on a regular basis. He wasted several miles and more than a little patience getting free of the Canton area before 140 settled down to become a quiet country road – and Al was in his element.
The road hugged the terrain, rather than cutting through it. The countryside was rustic, and beautiful – green and lush despite the searing heat and humidity. The Rover took the curves like the thoroughbred it was, and the big V8 had no difficulties with the hills.
Thirty miles later, Al bid 140 farewell and climbed on 75 into Tennessee.
Mile after mile flowed by and Al entered Road Mode. Sips of water and high-protein snacks taken sparingly kept him awake and focused, and the miles and scenery rolled by. Farms, hills, churches with huge crosses facing the highway, city and country rolled by.
As the day progressed, hunger intruded. Breakfast had been in Minneapolis, and lunch hadn’t happened, so dinner was on his mind. Not having Clara, he’d end up eating fast food, but that was fine.
“Oh, THAT will do.” He said, satisfied, as he saw a sign – “FOOD – this exit” that had a Steak And Shake logo.
Pulling off, he locked the Rover and entered, sitting at the counter. A burger, pile of French fries and a chocolate shake were produced, and happily enjoyed while Al chatted with the others at the counter and read a bit.
Meal done and conscious of the need to keep moving, Al took his check and headed for the cash register.
Standing in line (the place was busy) he noted the people in front of him, as one who lives by details will do. A harassed father of two, and a young couple – the latter put a smile on his face.
No more than 17, it was obvious they were out on a date. Her shy smiles and his neat dress and respectable manners marked this as surely as anything. The young gentleman had taken his girl out for a burger, it seemed.
With the harassed father done paying for his meals and dragging off his squalling brats, the young man stepped up to the counter, produced his check and handed it to the clerk – and went for his wallet.
And froze.
Patting his pockets, the young man began to colour – he was obviously missing his wallet. In the car, in the road – it was anywhere but on his person – and with it his money.
The clerk, not unkindly, asked, “Trouble, son?”
“I can’t find my wallet.” His tone, a bit panicked, was matched by the rising colour of his embarrassment. His young companion looked panicked as well, and said “I didn’t bring anything – you told me not to!”
With this, Al stepped forward, and laid a 20-dollar bill on the counter. “I’ve got it.”
He was immediately challenged by the young man. “No, sir. No. No need to do that. I’ll have my Dad come down and bring my money – I got paid today, and I can do this.” His young companion said the same – “My Dad can come down – no thank you, sir – we don’t need it.”
Al looked at both of them and was proud – good, solid kids.
“Kids, I am on a very long trip. I stopped for dinner here, and I won’t be back this way again. Let me do this – it will be good luck for me on my trip.”
They took him in – his slightly odd dress, the obvious English accent, the plea to be allowed to help – and the young man relented. “Thank you, sir.”
His young friend then spoke, the musical drawl of Georgia also strong in her speech. “With your permission, sir, we’ll pay it forward.”
“You have my permission to do just that. Thank you for wanting to.”
With that, they left and Al paid their and his tab, much to the amusement of the young man behind the counter.
Leaving the parking lot and resuming his trek up Route 75, Al thought on what he’d seen and heard. Young ones…bless them. With kids like that in the world things were good.
Chuckling to himself, he imagined a scenario. Should they marry, he could hear the conversations in front of the fire on occasion. “I remember our first date – you took me to the Steak And Shake and forgot your wallet, and that old gentleman paid our check for us. We’ve paid it forward, often – but we never even asked his name.”
Ruminations like that occupied his mind for many miles, as Tennessee slipped by under the Rover’s wheels.
Altogether too soon night began to fall, and with it Al’s spirits began to wane. Taking an exit, he found lodgings for the evening on the outskirts of Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Changing, answering a few emails and preparing for the next day, he finally slipped between the cool sheets and turned off the light.
“Good night, Ialin.”
“Good night, Al.”
Chapter 1 – What possessed me to do this?
“Why are you doing this again?” Daisy asked, less than patiently.
“You know why – I’ve told you. It’s a favour to… a friend. He’d do it himself…but he wants me to. And I can’t refuse. Let’s just leave it at that.”
On the surface, the request was simple. Inspect and buy a car in Atlanta, and ferry it to northern Massachusetts, then fly home.
His friend had made all the arrangements. The payment for the car was in escrow in Atlanta, and the temporary plates were there as well. All he had to do is inspect it and make sure it wasn’t about to break in half from rust (he’d been told emphatically that nothing else mattered as long as it ran and drove well) then drive it 1100 miles to northern Massachusetts.
Easy-peasy. A couple of days on the road, and then home. A nice road trip through a bit of the United States he had had little contact with, and then a visit with an old friend, then home.
The flight was uneventful, Minneapolis to Chicago to Atlanta. As it was a short enough run, Al hadn’t bothered to get first class, and regretted it. The pushing, shoving and general cattle-car attitudes made him pine for the days when air travel wasn’t a bus with wings. Frankly, he’d have preferred to be on his bus…but driving that out would just leave him with two vehicles to deal with.
Music and writing filled the time in the air and waiting – another few chapters in his memoirs were filed, with a sense of wry amusement. No one knew he was writing this, and that it and his journals were slated to be given to Buck if and when, with instructions for publication. Paranormal, of course – no way in the world was he going to destroy the secrecy his family lived with and he’d learned to respect.
Soon enough, the journey was over, and along with his fellow inmates he was summarily released into the teeming confines of Atlanta Hartsfield.
It was an utter madhouse. The corridors were choked with passengers arriving, departing and generally milling about, and the waiting areas all overflowed with people, not having been designed for the planes they now serviced.
Al shouldered his way through, finally reaching the long underground passage to the baggage area. He’d packed a bag, figuring he was going to be away for a few days, and of course packing tools and emergency materials in case his charge decided to let him down. With luck, he’d never open the bag, but it was here.
He also carried a small, personal item – a twig from Ialin’s willow at his home, its end in a tube of water. Once before she’d traveled with him – and he hoped this would let her find him here to do so again.
Making his way down the half-mile of corridor to baggage claim and eschewing the train (he’d had enough of packed spaces and overcrowding for the moment) he collected his bag (finally) and walked out into the blazing heat and humidity.
95 degrees, and 80% humidity. He’d been in deserts, and the great plains of the Midwest, but this muggy heat was just draining – and had him hoping that the air conditioning in his charge worked, if anything did.
Walking out to the passenger area, he dug out his phone, selected a number, and dialed.
“Mr. Dillingham – I’m at pickup area P2 – where are you?”
“Al, I’m down at P7 – and drop the mister – my name’s Jesse. Come on down – the truck and I are here.”
Oh, well, THAT’s convenient. If it makes it here and back to Dillingham’s place I am pretty-well assured it will make it where it needs to go – especially in THIS heat. Al mused. Nice when the customer cooperates.
Starting to wilt in the heat, he unlimbered the handle on his portmanteau and wheeled off toward the passenger area. As he got there, he spotted his quest – one of the last of the Land-Rover Discovery Is – a 1998. Seeing it, Al remembered the conversation with his friend.
“Mate, I can get you Discovery Is all day every day fifty miles from your house – what’s so special about this one?”
“Al, it’s not what it is that’s special – it’s what it isn’t.
It isn’t rusty. You know as well as I do that that’s about as rare as rocking horse turds – and a lot harder to come by.
My daughter’s always driven LR products – and her present one is about done from rust – I got it too late and couldn’t check the tinworm. This one is going to get proofed nine ways from Hades and hopefully we can keep it as it is. She likes the D1s – I could buy her a D3 or D4, but that’s not on.”
Al remembered the speech – so like his own, but subtly different – a little greyer, a little shallower and very tired. He also couldn’t fault the sentiment – not given what he’d done for Cinnamon.
As he approached, the car’s owner stepped out and waved. Al smiled – this was going to be fun. He loved buying cars, even when they weren’t his to keep except for a little while.
Jesse Dillingham was a tall, stocky black man – Al was reminded of his friend McAdams. Greeting him, he in turn was greeted with the musical drawl of a native Georgian – and immediately liked the man.
“Thanks for picking me up – it’s going to make my life a lot easier.”
“No problem Al – glad to see you, and glad my big girl here’s going to be going to a good home. Let’s get in out of the heat.”
The two men climbed into the cab of the Discovery, and Al was appalled. He’d known the car was a diamond in the rough – but he hadn’t realized how rough that diamond was.
Keeping his face quite neutral, he looked about. The dash was fine, other than a nick or two and the expected sun fading. The centre console was missing its burled walnut trim, the bare plastic showing instead, with a few stray wires poking out around the edges of the shifter bezel.
The carpets were adrift – not terribly worn but nothing anchored. The front seats were torn, and the stitching popped long past repair. The day/night mirror had cracked and lost its fluid, and the headliner was loose in sections. More worrying, the CHECK ENGINE and ABS lights were on – never a good sign.
I was warned about this, and I knew what I was picking up. This old girl is way overdue for some love – and a lot of it. My friend will be busy for a good long time with THIS one. Al thought to himself, with a wry note. He’d bought trucks like this before, and had no room to criticize.
“She’s a beauty, Jesse – quite an old girl, indeed. You owned her long?”
Jesse’s face darkened. “No, I’ve had her less than a year. She was my ‘escape vehicle’ when I got out of the hospital – I’d been in there for two months, and at home for a year before that.
Since I got out, she’s been a fun vehicle for me – but I need to get something a little bigger. I’m sorry as heck to let her go, but…I can’t keep two.
I’m really glad your friend saw my advertisement – I’d had some interest in the old girl, but for one reason or another no one had bought her. I was just as glad – no one was going to show her any love, or it seemed like it.”
Al had noticed the window sticker when he got in the car – a support group for a serious neuromuscular disease. He could see what was happening, and understood the issues.
Jesse in this time had guided the car out of the airport, and onto the highway toward his home. Despite its shabby appearance, the car handled well – no noise, and good pickup and road holding. Jesse accelerated smoothly to 70, and the car sped along the road.
As they went, Jesse filled him in on the history of the car.
“Since I bought it, I’ve cleaned up a lot of little issues it had. It’s had a full service, all the fluids and filters changed, and it’s been on a strict diet of the best I could get for it. She’s high mileage, but doesn’t use oil or leak much.
Your friend knows about the big issues – a bad heater core, bad rear window motors, and the interior. His big interest was the fact she’s rust free – he says he can deal with the rest.”
“He can, rest assured. Really, all I need to do is have a poke at the normally rusty spots, and if they’re as good as they seem to be I can release the escrow and we can complete the transaction.
I’m quite impressed – she moves right along.”
“She’s a great road-trip car – a month ago my wife and I took her to Florida and back – over 700 miles. No problems, no issues, and ran well at 70. When your friend asked if it was up to a ferry run to New England I said yes – no doubt.
She’s all serviced, and ready to go. I checked everything this morning, and topped up what needed it.”
Al was pleased – despite the condition of the interior this was a caring and not duplicitous owner.
A highway run, some stop and go (when the temperature gauge never ascended) and several miles of back roads saw the pair at Jesse’s home. With this, Al went into action. Doffing his fedora and putting on a ball cap, he opened all of the doors on the truck, and armed with his tactical flashlight went to work.
Armed with a Phillips screwdriver he began to poke and pry. The carpets were lifted (and some small amounts of rust found but nothing concerning), the chassis checked, the wheel wells sounded and the rear floor given a regular thrashing with the screwdriver.
All was sound. Even areas expected to fail in the best-kept Rover were sound.
He crawled out, walked over to Jesse, and held out his hand after peeling the rubber glove off it.
“I think we have a deal.”
45 minutes later, banks called, papers exchanged and the car loaded with water and snacks (at Jesse’s insistence) Al pulled out and headed for Route 575 – and New England. Before this, the pair had conversed about the best route – Al having never been in this area and never shy to ask for directions from a local.
Jesse answered the question with a question.
“Al, how much time do you have?”
“My time is my own, more or less. Don’t really want to play tourist, but I’m open to suggestions.”
“At this time of the day, 75 North is going to be a horror show with traffic headed out of Atlanta. If you want to avoid a good chunk of it, I have a suggestion for you.”
“Please, do tell!”
“Go up 575, and get off at Route 140. 140 will take you over and up to 75 much further along – and most of the commuters will be gone by that time.
140 is a classic old highway – two lanes, 55 miles an hour, and it goes through some of the prettiest country around. If you want to enjoy Georgia, go that way.”
Al certainly did want to enjoy it – so he did. Almost.
575 was not an issue, asking at the gas station where he stopped to fuel up (slowly – the tank wasn’t right) got him there.
140, on the other hand, was a snake – it tended to crawl off and hide on a regular basis. He wasted several miles and more than a little patience getting free of the Canton area before 140 settled down to become a quiet country road – and Al was in his element.
The road hugged the terrain, rather than cutting through it. The countryside was rustic, and beautiful – green and lush despite the searing heat and humidity. The Rover took the curves like the thoroughbred it was, and the big V8 had no difficulties with the hills.
Thirty miles later, Al bid 140 farewell and climbed on 75 into Tennessee.
Mile after mile flowed by and Al entered Road Mode. Sips of water and high-protein snacks taken sparingly kept him awake and focused, and the miles and scenery rolled by. Farms, hills, churches with huge crosses facing the highway, city and country rolled by.
As the day progressed, hunger intruded. Breakfast had been in Minneapolis, and lunch hadn’t happened, so dinner was on his mind. Not having Clara, he’d end up eating fast food, but that was fine.
“Oh, THAT will do.” He said, satisfied, as he saw a sign – “FOOD – this exit” that had a Steak And Shake logo.
Pulling off, he locked the Rover and entered, sitting at the counter. A burger, pile of French fries and a chocolate shake were produced, and happily enjoyed while Al chatted with the others at the counter and read a bit.
Meal done and conscious of the need to keep moving, Al took his check and headed for the cash register.
Standing in line (the place was busy) he noted the people in front of him, as one who lives by details will do. A harassed father of two, and a young couple – the latter put a smile on his face.
No more than 17, it was obvious they were out on a date. Her shy smiles and his neat dress and respectable manners marked this as surely as anything. The young gentleman had taken his girl out for a burger, it seemed.
With the harassed father done paying for his meals and dragging off his squalling brats, the young man stepped up to the counter, produced his check and handed it to the clerk – and went for his wallet.
And froze.
Patting his pockets, the young man began to colour – he was obviously missing his wallet. In the car, in the road – it was anywhere but on his person – and with it his money.
The clerk, not unkindly, asked, “Trouble, son?”
“I can’t find my wallet.” His tone, a bit panicked, was matched by the rising colour of his embarrassment. His young companion looked panicked as well, and said “I didn’t bring anything – you told me not to!”
With this, Al stepped forward, and laid a 20-dollar bill on the counter. “I’ve got it.”
He was immediately challenged by the young man. “No, sir. No. No need to do that. I’ll have my Dad come down and bring my money – I got paid today, and I can do this.” His young companion said the same – “My Dad can come down – no thank you, sir – we don’t need it.”
Al looked at both of them and was proud – good, solid kids.
“Kids, I am on a very long trip. I stopped for dinner here, and I won’t be back this way again. Let me do this – it will be good luck for me on my trip.”
They took him in – his slightly odd dress, the obvious English accent, the plea to be allowed to help – and the young man relented. “Thank you, sir.”
His young friend then spoke, the musical drawl of Georgia also strong in her speech. “With your permission, sir, we’ll pay it forward.”
“You have my permission to do just that. Thank you for wanting to.”
With that, they left and Al paid their and his tab, much to the amusement of the young man behind the counter.
Leaving the parking lot and resuming his trek up Route 75, Al thought on what he’d seen and heard. Young ones…bless them. With kids like that in the world things were good.
Chuckling to himself, he imagined a scenario. Should they marry, he could hear the conversations in front of the fire on occasion. “I remember our first date – you took me to the Steak And Shake and forgot your wallet, and that old gentleman paid our check for us. We’ve paid it forward, often – but we never even asked his name.”
Ruminations like that occupied his mind for many miles, as Tennessee slipped by under the Rover’s wheels.
Altogether too soon night began to fall, and with it Al’s spirits began to wane. Taking an exit, he found lodgings for the evening on the outskirts of Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Changing, answering a few emails and preparing for the next day, he finally slipped between the cool sheets and turned off the light.
“Good night, Ialin.”
“Good night, Al.”