Marlowe
Saturday arrived with King uncharacteristically nervous, double-checking a saddlebag packed with supplies I wasn't allowed to see the contents of, deflecting every single question I threw at him with the same maddening, cheerful non-answer.
"You'll see when we get there."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." He handed me a helmet, grinning in a way that made him look considerably younger than his usual careful composure ever allowed. "Trust me."
I climbed on behind him, curiosity thoroughly piqued, and we rode for the better part of an hour through increasingly unfamiliar back roads until the terrain opened up into a stretch of land I didn't recognize at all — rolling and green, a small creek cutting through it, an old, weathered homestead sitting empty
