Peter wrapped a strong arm around June as they left her tiny office. His silent support after the past week was exactly what she needed.
Maybe even more than coffee, the lifeblood that had kept her going this far.
Dry eyes were both itchy and sore. Even a blink hurt. She twisted her head, yawned, and hoped for hydration. It might take a miracle at this point.
“Parking lot’s on fire,” she mumbled, and felt him stiffen against her before letting her go. Her gaze drifted to the staircase. Ancient carpeting had never looked so welcoming. Surely a few minutes reprieve would be worth the cost of getting up again?
He stared out the window, lips tight and shoulders tense. “Not a bonfire. June, we need to go.”
“Mm-kay.” Another yawn, cut off as he rushed her into the chill autumn air. Her leather jacket wasn’t enough anymore, but she didn’t have anything better for New Hampshire yet.
Peter hurried her toward the faculty lot, a trip normally enjoyable with old-fashioned lampposts and – at the moment – the crunch and scent of crushed fallen leaves. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“What?” She looked at the fire, which came in spurts of jetting, horizontal flame. Adrenaline flooded her system, overriding exhaustion. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I don’t have an explanation.”
The words came out in a whisper as she took a hesitant step forward toward her ancient truck, its headlights somehow replaced with fireworks flares that repeated in a pattern. “Big Red? What happened to you? Who would do this?”
“Better yet,” Peter started, and cleared his throat. His Irish lilt was stronger when he tried again. “Ah, perhaps we should be asking instead why your truck is flaming an SOS at us.”
***
This week, Cedar Sanderson prompted me with “The old truck blasted a stream of flames from where its headlights ought to be.” My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The tree reached out and bopped her on the nose with a bright green leaf.
