Chapter 7
Willowbean, New York. I took the residential-infested Ripley Road to Bach Road, which narrowed as it edged closer to the lake, through the New York woods. October leaves of various dried colors decorated the dirt pathway. Wind danced along the weaving road and over the Mercedes’s windshield, perhaps leading me to the small cottage. For once in the last ten hours, I finally felt calm and relaxed. Alive after so many years of death. Rewarded.
I slowly drove the Mercedes down Lochner Road. One mile turned into two. No one around. Just I. All woods in the state of death around me: leaves brown, tree limbs brittle, and earth beginning to freeze because of October’s brisk, but expected, coldness as the season grew bitter, lifeless. I drove slowly toward the cottage. The building was
