I hadn't been back back east in time out of mind. Kansas City had been my retreat from expectations for some 20 years and I'd done well with it. I made my mistakes; don't disparage the Royals, don't like the Huskers, and don't talk about the competition with the boats in Iowa. All of that aside life here is easy. 150 words, give or take. News of the day, as often as I can write it. I get payed. It's a good thing. So fuck me, right? I got an email from my sister (She's on the left coast shoveling shit and living the dream in 'Frisco. Insult intended.). It reads: > Hey, > Mom needs a hand for a bit. I would do it but Jimmy is out of town and with the kids I just can't jump a flight. > Love you and your acquiescence. > -Abby I'm not generally one to take her condescension but it had been longer than I'd like since I visited. So I agreed. I talked to my section editor about taking some time off. He ran it up the line that day. I called mom to say I was on my way and turned right onto eastbound I-70 at 11:45am. 13 hours to Roanoke, Virginia. No problem. --- Jon was not a smart man, nor was he terribly physical. In fact, though he tried to be prepared, it would not be unheard of for him to described as lacking in a general sense. But there is simply no accounting for being removed from ones comfort zone. Spring floods, a wet summer, a short autumn, and the typical intense cold of December had laid waste to the roads. The pitch dark of 7pm on a January evening on a county road rendered the ice invisible; the pothole might have been foreseeable. The impact shredded his tire. He cursed himself for being so careless. Having passed other stranded vehicles he should have been more watchful. Be that as it may, the tire needed changing and he set about it. He didn't react when he heard the misstep. A stone inadvertently set rolling. He feigned struggling with a lug nut. Gripping the tire iron, he waited. This was all wrong. This is Virginia. People help each other here. They don't sneak. He had to be wrong. Then he heard it. A giggle from the ditch. He stood suddenly, swinging the steel bar blind at head level making deadly contact. Horrified, he took in the view of the first person he had ever killed. The hapless way it had crumpled to the ground. The bile welled up in his throat. After a moment he actually saw the face. Painted in clown fashion. Then he understood. "Go back to Detroit. You're not welcome here, fucking Juggalos."