“”You’ve gotta move,” I’d shout above the roar, I don’t know how loud since I wore good ear-covers. No problem, apparently, after a few of those rocking-horse staggers like they do, just barely out of my path. “You’re gonna get sprayed!” Mulched clippings shot from under the machine, but that only happened once. Henny-Penny always foraged on the safe side after that.”
“It didn’t behave like a bird, either. It did not fly. Instead, it liked to read—at least it looked like it did.”
“Out,” she says. My tongue drops and she rolls the swab against the back of my throat with her gloved hand. She smiles and hums while she rotates her wrist.
This must be how the hundred or so writers feel while they wait on my ass to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life.
“‘Hey, hey, what’s it take to go missing nowadays? I mean, what does it take, you know? With all of the cameras and phones and credit cards, how does one just go out and never come back?’ You ever wonder that?”