Walking Point
Three months after I stepped on the land mine, I saw my dead son. He was slim and dark-haired, serious-faced as only a twenty-year-old can be. Without a word, he stepped into my Rambam hospital room, lifted my truncated body into a wheelchair, and pushed me down to the sea…
Tramp
Jackson rode up to Espiritu Wells as night fell, eyes rimmed red by sun and sand and body bone weary from the lengthy desert crossing. He rubbed down Rio and [...]