Keep moving.
Confusion and guilt ruled the day. It sure looked like his men were dead back there. He was sure they’d begged for help. But then they were gone. That meant they were alive, that they walked away. Didn’t it? Parts felt real. Parts did not. Like that detached hand. How could those fingers tap like they were attached to Kent when they weren’t?
Harley collapsed against a wall. Scrubbing the pain away, he tried desperately to remember or forget. The puzzle remained. Hadn’t he seen this same damned movie before?
Shreds of bizarre nonsense swirled inside his tired skull.
“Nine o’clock team meeting, don’t be—”
“Your favorite peppered shrimp—”
“Mark’s baby girl... JayJay... looks like—”
“Judy.”
The last word, that name tugged at his weary mind for further scrutiny. It meant something. He could tell. It was a pleasant name. Like the piercing beam of a lighthouse cast high above the pitch-black storm in his head, it called to him. ‘Look at me. Remember me.’
Harley sucked in another breath of desert air, his soul whipped and beaten by the war.
Who the hell is Judy?
About the Author
Irish Winters…
…is a best-selling author who, when she isn’t writing, dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teen years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah, home. For now.
She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
Connect with Irish online:
On Facebook: https:/www.facebook.com/author.irishwinters
On Twitter: https://twitter.com/irishwinters1
Or at http://www. IrishWinters.com
