is illegal, so not that. I could sell my eggs... but that takes time. I don’t have time. A few weeks without my regular income could pull me under. Okay—not a few weeks; I do have some savings, but it would be gone in a month or two.
Shit.
I’m out of bed at 5:15 AM. I shower, brush and floss my teeth, work on cross-stitching a quote that, when I started cross-stitching it, I believed was attributed to Vonnegut. Since I started my project, I found it’s actually not Vonnegut, but some anon poetry-book person going by the name “pleasefindthis.”
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.”
I arch my brows at the sentiment—which doesn’t exactly jibe with my mood right now—and put the piece aside after forming the “n” in pain. I debate going for a run, going for a swim, and working on a canvas before I finally give in and, a little after 8 AM, shoot my new friend Matt a text.
He calls me immediately and tells me we can meet up in the afternoon. He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s the middle of nowhere, because Google maps, which I’ve pulled up on my MacBook, has never heard of the address. I’ll have to go on Matt’s directions.
“Four-thirty okay with you?” he asks.
I bite my lip, staring at the spot on the Google map where I think his place is located. “So it’s down near the river, kinda south of town?”
“My friend’s place. Yeah, by the river.”
I tap my fingers on my chin. “Hmmm.”
“You good for it?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t usually go to strangers’ houses without taking someone with me. Especially strangers like you.”
He laughs. “You gonna bring someone with you?”
“I’ve got another idea.”
A few minutes later, I receive a texted photo of Matt’s license. I shoot it to Lora, along with a text: ‘Hope I can trust your homeboy. Meeting up at 4:30 at a house on a dirt road off that county road with the big, red barn. Send a search party if u don’t hear from me by 7.’
I wriggle into my favorite black stretch jeans, pull a loose red blouse over my head, and slip into my silver Manolos. I drive through at my bank, at College Corner, and withdraw three thousand dollars. Then I point myself south, toward where the river weaves its way between the Alabama and Georgia lines.
The drive is shady and nice, with lots of pastures, big trees, and a few glimpses of the winding river. I have the top down on my Miata, and I’m feeling kind of excited. If I can start buying from Matt, it will be even better than Kennard. For one, no weekend trips to Albany. Assuming Matt’s not lying to me, or a freaking cop, he’s got a big supply. To top it off, on our first and only deal, he was cheaper than Kennard—and the shit was higher quality. Like... a lot higher.
I turn down the dirt road Matt mentioned, and my car starts bouncing. Some of the dust I’m kicking up ends up in my mouth, and I wish I’d left my car’s top up. I take it a little slower, shut my mouth, and squint, then look down at the directions I punched into my phone’s notepad.
The dirt road forks, and the dirt gets a little wetter—like it’s rained out this way recently. I’m going so slow, I can hear the river rushing through the trees somewhere nearby.
Matt seems nice, like a normal guy. A good ole boy. I hope he really is.
Finally, I see my signal: a large, brown mailbox tacked onto the side of a towering oak. The road forks yet again. I veer right, and the sound of the rushing river amplifies. A black bird flies overhead, sailing up into the fluffy, white clouds then dipping down, where he soars ahead of my car.
I drive between a few pecan trees, and there it is: an elegant brick mansion situated in the middle of a lush, green pasture. There’s a spacious porch, overflowing with plants and rocking chairs, plus four stately, round, white columns. Classic Southern plantation digs.
This is nice.
Like... really nice.
I strain to see how many cars are parked in front, but there are too many trees to get a count. I drive slowly, telling myself that if it seems