Janet Carter

The Storycatcher

There was nothing much else I could do at that point. I’d already done it all, and done it badly, firing the bridges behind me the minute I’d been clear of them. So when the call came, I went. My 28 days were up, and it was all I knew to do. That or the street, and even a farm 900 miles south sounded better than the street. At least it would be warm and dry, food to eat and a roof over me. And the street would always be there waiting when I burned this bridge, too, as I already assumed I would. If the old man was too much trouble to take care of, I’d just leave. It was six months. I could do anything for six months.