Michael Malone - Weebly

eing alone had never bothered him in the past. In fact,
his children had been so often reminded not to intrude
on his work that now, he knew, none of the three had a
habit of relationship with him, or the desire for one. I
must be getting old, Ransom thought, grimacing as he
pushed himself up from a white iron chair. His calf and
thigh muscles were strained from his jog, and "the war
souvenir," as he called the steel pin in his leg, was
hurting. But Ransom approved of purposeful, respectful
pain and enjoyed feeling the earned ache as he walked
down the flagstone path to the in-ground pool set at the
far end of his lawn in a circle of azaleas and
rhododendrons.
He'd brought a drink out here last night, while Priss
was away in New York; he'd sat in the dark and tried
to think about his drive that morning up to the aborted
highway. But soon, listening to the bubble of the
mechanical filter, his thoughts had moved away from
that troublesome image to more pleasant recollections.
He remembered how he'd felt hearing all the living
foreign and familiar night sounds the lake had made
when as a boy he'd taken Pauline Moffat out rowing