It’s him. It has to be. Or maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. It’s been known to happen before. It’s just a man who happens to look like Jack. It’s not him. Can’t be.
I blink a number of times. And my heart feels as if it will explode within my chest, my temples throb, and my mouth goes dry at once. Keeping my eyes on the distant visitor, I stop pouring the iced tea, without further ado I set the pitcher on the counter, and snag a few paper towels from the roll next to the Keurig. Hereafter, I swab up the mess, toss the towels in the garbage, and rinse my hands.
I close my eyes for a second…two seconds…three seconds, testing myself. When I open them, Backpack Jack isn’t going to be at the corner of my property. It’s a mind-game going on because of the dream I had from the night befor
