The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I pick the prettiest part of the sky and I melt into the wing and then into the air, till I'm just soul on a sunbeam.”  -Richard Bach

[ C H A P T E R   T W E N T Y – F O U R ]

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I am brutally yanked into the waking world by the cacophony of a million rapid-fire explosions. Rolling out of my sleeping bag, I crouch on the balls of my feet and instinctively scan for danger. A long moment passes before my brain registers the “threat” as bursting popcorn kernels.

“Rise and shine, blondie!” Logan exclaims, holding a stick over the campfire. An aluminum foil pouch – containing the kernels in question, I’m sure – is tied to the end. “Owen! Tempest! You, too!”

The youngest members of our flock exhale with relief, creeping toward the sounds of food.

“Where did you get popcorn?” I ask, incredulous. We’ve made two other pit stops besides Tempest’s bathroom incident, one of which was a midnight grocery store raid, but I don’t recall seeing anyone nab the ingredients required for such a treat.

“It was my idea,” Talon admits. He, too, is dangling a silver sack above the flames. “My grandparents taught me how to make popcorn in the wild before I left. It just jumped into my head while we were at the store, so I grabbed a bunch of supplies and had Logan help me hide them.”

Logan gives her bag a couple of shakes as the crackling winds down. “He wanted it to be a surprise,” she says. “Adorable.”

“Good going, bro,” Owen utters appreciatively, never removing his gaze from our breakfast. It smells scrumptious.

When the popping ceases, Logan and Talon flavor the food with butter and salt before distributing it among five paper bowls. I devour my helping as soon as it’s in my hands. Tempest tips her head back and attempts to dump hers into her mouth all at once, causing several pieces to bounce off her face and land in the dirt. She still eats them, of course. Owen eyes the act with distaste as he consumes his serving like a normal person, chewing no more than four morsels at a time.

“I still can’t believe we managed to find a place to sleep outdoors in Kansas,” Tempest comments after swallowing the last of her popcorn. “There are, like, no trees.”

When you look at a map of the United States, you can sometimes see a single longitude line (100° W) that runs through Kansas. You know, the one that divides Dodge City? That one. That’s where we are right now. Not in Dodge, but toward the center of the state, in a patch of trees next to the creek south-southeast of a teensy town called Collyer.

“There are plenty of trees,” Owen interjects.

“Don’t correct me, owl boy,” Tempest chides, swiping a handful of buttery tidbits from the top of his bowl.

Logan ignores their squabbling and regards me seriously. “Today’s the day,” she says. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

A prickly ball of anxiety suddenly forms in the pit of my stomach. It’s impossible to ditch the feeling, but I push it down enough to respond with a level “yeah”.

“Where did the accident happen?”

The question triggers a flurry of horrifying memories and dreams, but, again, I am able to suppress them. “The Million Dollar Highway,” I reply at last, choking a little over the words, “a few miles south of Ouray, Colorado.” The white knuckle road is said to be the scariest in the state, complete with breathtaking views, devastating drops, and an astonishing lack of guardrails.