He’d just finished washing his plate and setting in the rack to dry, when he heard a car coming down his rutted drive. The clock said it was ten to seven. The sun had already dipped past the pointed tops of the thick row of jack pines between his place and the neighbour’s, entombing him in shadows.
The car crept at an aching pace down the winding drive. Headlights swept out, and then stopped, pointing directly at the house. He’d moved to the porch by now, watching it come, pushing his past and everything he’d run from, ahead of it.