Each day was like putting together a puzzle, without knowing what picture it formed. He knew he had all the pieces. He knew he would figure it out in time. But there was no guide to help him, no end goal or instructions—only daily guesses.
The dingy 47th Street alley was home. She didn’t have a house or a car or even a refrigerator, but she had a roof and three walls that formed a cozy nook. She was content.
The light comes back on, and a woman in an orange jumpsuit is standing by the fence with her head tilted down, eyes up, staring at me with a nasty grin. I leap backwards and point my rifle at her.
He headed north, with his six year old daughter asleep in the backseat. She was tough, and he knew she would be fine. He wasn’t as sure about himself.
She grabbed a paper from a nearby stand: 1969. Man had just stepped on the moon for the first time, not knowing that the first colony wouldn’t be there for another 74 years.