Self-control
When Drake glances up at the roiling sky, unconsciously, my eyes follow. I’ve lived in Crossroads for nearly one hundred years across two incarnations and never seen a storm like this. Overhead, the clouds churn, dark and ominous, blotting out the sun so that where we stand amid the forested trail to the private beach at Tassler Heights, daylight has dimmed to a murky gloom. The whipping wind has grown heavy and dense and stirs only faintly, pushing the pine boughs this way and that. A distant violent crack of lightning is followed by a long, low, building rumble of thunder and it’s only then that I realize even the birds have hunkered down and become quiet, their few twittering calls, anxious and strained. “We should get inside,” I say unnecessarily, then startle a little to find him w
- Writer
