The stupid little car had a habit of letting her down, right when she needed it the most. Take this morning, for instance: she had an important meeting to get to followed by lunch with a friend, and yet here she was in the middle of nowhere waiting for a man in a yellow suit to show up. It was almost as though someone had it in for her. Although, after everything she had been through, she somehow doubted that.
Perhaps the car was worried she’d leave it behind when she left, the cost of shipping outweighing the cost of replacing it at her destination? Or perhaps the country was trying to keep her, albeit treading water in a halfway, half-real, no-man’s land? The irony had not escaped her. As much as she was reluctant to return to the past, for she had good reason to leave it, she needed this transition in order to progress. Without it, she would be trapped indefinitely, sinking deeper and deeper into a hole she lacked the energy to vacate.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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