Low Hollow
“Christ in a hand basket,” Steve heard, pulled out of the meadow and back into the real world by Gio, who was shaking him. “What the f**k happened now, Steve? I can’t even leave to get cigarettes?”
Steve had his face buried in the cold snow. When he opened his eyes, he thought he had gone blind from his fall, seeing thick blackness. That wasn’t the case, though, since colors soon appeared in his vision as he lifted his head: frosty whites mixed with winter grays; the stripes of orange on a teenager’s sporty car—Steve thought it a Mustang, had to be—parked across the street; a bright blue mailbox, next to the sporty car; fancy script on the side of the mailbox reading The Hendersons. He turned over, and there was Gio above him, concern locked on his face, mixed with confusion.
