Tate plasters herself against the curve of the inside wall and runs one palm flat across the dry, chilly rock. She catches her breath in slow, uneven jags.
The rain outside lets in its loamy threads of decay, the smells of damp earth a-bloom with slow rot. Tate sinks down into a trembling crouch and huffs hot breath across her knuckles. Every bone in her body feels wet and shrieking. The side of her arm she used to batter at the door smarts worse than awful. She shakes all over as if the fever has sent word back to her blood and intends to do her down for truth this time.
//
In her twilight hours, the girl comes upon a cave.
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FELLA is a genre-crossing Western about the nature of goodness in America and the miracle of storytelling. Join me here every other Monday for a new chapter of Tate’s twisting fate unfolding.
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