Driving down a country road on a snowy night wasn't the best idea. The winding roads were designed to lure unsuspecting cars into hungry ditches and lonely fields. It didn't help that it was snowing. Pretty snowflakes dancing in the air had fed several cars to said ditches. Nature wasn't going to fool me with its Thomas Kincaid painting.
I pulled up to the old house and parked next to the driveway. Engine running, I waited for him to come out. The lights were on but there weren't any shadows moving in the house. I wonderedd if he had fallen asleep. It wouldn't have been the first time. None of the trip was a first time. It would have been nice if he had planned things out a little better.
The overgrown yard looked nicer smothered in snow. Weeks ago it was a gnarly mess of overgrown grass, weeds and sumac trees. The garbage bins had been piled near the sagging garage door. Random objects littered the front porch and concrete pad that led to the workshop door. Everything had sung a song of neglect. It still did, the snow only turned the volume down.
In front of the workshop window, by the misshapen hedge, was a purple squirrel holding something. That got my attention. It moved left, climbed over a propne tank and scurried across the porch. I had to laugh. Tired eyes and country nights did funny things to colors. I shifted forward to see
(time ran out)