3
Beep–beep–beep!
Tara’s horn repeatedly pierced the crisp morning mountain air.
Bev was madly throwing things into a bag. She had said early, but 6:30am was not a leisurely way to start a vacation weekend in Bev’s mind.
Beeeeeep! Beep!
Bev was sure the neighbors would call the cops. She had moved into a cute stucco duplex tucked up against the base of Sleeping Lion mountain in Fort Davis, just across the street from the century old Presbyterian Church. As a rule it was very quiet, apart from the church bells on Sundays, until this morning. Tara was going to wake the living, the dead and the lion in the mountain with her racket.
Bev bounded out the door with a half closed suitcase in tow, waving with her one free hand in hopes of silencing the beeping. Tara’s red hot convertible Cor
