It was a black hole of a night, sheets of rain engulfing the old Ford pick-up as Kate and her old chum Tully made their way up the mountainside to the cabin where Kate planned to do a lot of thinking about her life and her marriage.
The rain dripped through a rusted spot above the windshield and onto the sling cradling her broken arm.
She ignored it, her mind on how close she’d come to being caught by her husband, home a day early from his trip—no doubt filled with remorse and carrying roses—her clairvoyance useless when it came to him and his tumultuous nature; he wouldn’t understand her need to get away.
Suddenly she was swamped with guilt and a miasma of confusion, inhibiting her ability to “see” what she would so clearly have seen otherwise: the downed sign, the washed out bridge ahead and the hundred-foot plunge into the river below.
But then she felt a surge of power, an inner strength that must have been building with each mile she journeyed away from her husband, and she was filled with a certainty she hadn’t known since meeting him.
“Stop!” she cried, “the bridge is out ahead.”