From the author: The Pastoral
I begrudgingly got down from the truck. All around us were tall weeds browned by the summer sun, the trees were prematurely bare in their narrow rows between fields, a dry brown crust clinging to their crowns.
Jack seemed to know the way. With the gravel crunching underfoot and silence around us, I could imagine we were in some post-apocalyptic movie. Hopefully one of the ones where the main cast survives, or at least one brown person does.
"The farmhouse is just ahead." Jack quickened his...