Standing On The Threshold

I looked away from my father out the door at the storm. Lightning flashed overhead and crackled away over the treetops. The wind gusted a cool spray against my face. When I turned back to the cabin, the yellow light of the gas lantern flickered, and my father’s eyes shone from deep shadows. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said quietly. “You’re dead.”

He nodded with a wry smile. “Nights like these, though,” he said, glancing deliberately at the storm, “have a way of bringing us out.”

I thought about this. “I almost didn’t come up here at all, you know. The rain washed the road out in several places.”

He nodded. “They’ll find your jeep down there in the river.” His voice was calm, like the soft grass over a grave. “Of course, after all this rain, they won’t find it until spring.”

I scoffed, out of breath. “You think I’ll crash my Jeep on the way down the hill?”

I felt a chill through my bones, heard the gentle rush of distant water.

“No, son,” he said, and his smile turned wistful. “You crashed on the way up.”

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