Same Jan

Trent Lewin

mountain bed

        The dashboard gave off ten-year-old new-car-smell. Grant climbed into the driver’s seat and felt the packet of Advil Cheryl had tucked into his pocket. The newscaster’s voice was muddled by the fan, and outside, the sky was becoming lighter. Grant felt sick, like he was hung over.

        “Are we okay for gas?” asked Pete, taking the passenger side seat.

        Grant nodded. “Nice suit.”

        “Your wife called to tell you to drive careful,” he said.

        The ice on the windshield was gone. Now, there were geese above the rooftops, wobbly v’s hanging on a point heading south.

        When Vir showed up, he put a pillow against the window and leaned against it, eyes already closed. Next to him, Owen put his hands on Grant’s seat and pulled closer. “I think Jan would have liked Burma.”

        Grant put the car into gear, and pulled onto…

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