I’d come prepared for anything on I-70 in Utah, the loneliest stretch of emptiness in the US. Anything except a breakdown.
I flipped off the radio, seeking a shoulder. But the music played on — outside — and yanked me forward. I veered hard into the scrubby dirt.
I braked hard, fishtailing against a pile of boulders. Five feathered heads poked over the other side of the rocks. Men and women but — winged. They sang words of wisdom. They knew everything. They looked hungry.
Thanks to their song, so was I.
As I pushed open the door, they swooped in.
Day 12 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
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