Taylor flipped a cigarette butt into his trailer, almost, almost hoping some strange combo of stale fumes would ignite and torch the whole thing, every blower, whole truck.
No snow meant no work.
He walked inside and plopped on the sofa, lit a oney.
Funny how he’d never smoke tobacco in the house.
The America Rise Morning show weatherman was moving west to east, big crimson blotch over the north showing the heat wave.
Gramma Ell got a happy birthday from the guy when she turned 100.
A still frame and certificate was on her curio cabinet in Lauderdale.
Taylor grabbed a cold onion ring from the paper plate on the coffee table and his phone rang.
Holy shit, Gramma Ell.
Eerie.
“Ernest says it’s warmer there than here.”
No hello, just a weather report from her favorite guy.
“Hi Gramma, yeah, it’s ummm…very pleasant.”
“I wanna come back.”
“It’s Michigan, Miss Eleanor. We could have 15 inches tomorrow.”
“I don’t care. I wanna come home to die.”
Taylor, forgetting he was on the phone, shook his head silently.
“Come get me,” Gramma barked.
“It won’t be warm forever, Gramma. It’s best that-”
“I won’t be alive forever, and don’t tell me what’s best.”
“You hate flying, Gramma, and at your age-”
Taylor Kuen had taken a sledgehammer to a dam.
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