The morning after the accident
The morning after the accidentThe morning after the accidentTad Williamson, a.k.a. Johnny Vedder, was back at the window, peering into the morning gloom through the gap in the curtain. The rain had stopped, but heavy gray clouds crowded outside his dismal room. Erosion from the surrounding hillsides glazed the cracked asphalt parking lot with a thin sheen of red clay. Trish’s minivan was gone—replaced with a white Ford Ranger pickup.
Tad Williamson, a.k.a. Johnny Tad moved from the window, back to the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He wanted a strong cup of coffee with a half a dozen sugars, or better yet, a couple of cans of Red Bull. Through his mental fog, fragments of thought drifted in and out: the law, the yellow-hair
