Michael Malone - Weebly

"Oh, I'm sorry, thank you, yes. I guess I'm okay. I
mean, I didn't get hurt." Her cheeks and neck burned
with shame, for both herself and Mr. Smalter. She felt
close to tears.
The unfinished highway connector ran in glittering
asphalt straight into a wilderness of underbrush, where it
ended in weeds and dank, rotting leaves. The red
Firebird blistered there in the sun.
Beside it, Ramona Dingley sat in her wheelchair.
She drank ale from a bottle, stared into the dark forest,
and thought about the past.
Nearby, under the shade of an oak, Orchid O'Neal
reclined, surrounded by her nephews' socks, which she
was darning to keep herself occupied. Thursday was
her free afternoon, and while she'd been happy to
oblige by driving Miss Dingley and the two youngsters
off to look for something in the woods, she had to keep
busy. She couldn't sit and think, hour after hour, as her
employer seemed content to do.
For a while Ramona, by mentally tracing memories
sixty years old, had followed Polly and Luke west