"I almost didn't make it here. The road was so screwed up. Construction, a bunch of detours. I almost drove right into what was more a tank trap than a pot hole.
You've got to be nostalgic about government funded roads if you live in Michigan, you know?
You've got to long for the days when pot holes wouldn't snap an axle in the dark. When the power was consistent and you didn't have to shoot people sneaking over your fence at least once a week.
You've got to be nostalgic for a time when shooting trespassers was something you joked about with your crazy republican coworkers.
And there's rain, pitter patter (pitter pitter patter)ing down and thank goodness that last patch job and tarp worked. Thank the hard work and the sun burn and the delicious beer and the sun-stroke hangover the next day. Thank the hard work and not the workers --I'm missing an eye and he's dead, shot in the back of the head as he turned and waved, walking back to his house. It'd been such a slow week, and we hadn't seen any rovers in three days on top of that and Ella went inside, out off the roof, away from the binoculars for just that three minutes and
One dead friend and my winged face and blind (haha) luck that I caught one in the chest and the other in the leg and Ella, bless her, got them both in the head with her rifle a moment later; a moment (too) late.
One dead friend, and some bumpy roads.
Welcome to the bleed, I suppose."