Tilting at Windmills
Supposed Crimes LLC, Falls Church, Virginia
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2010, 2013 Geonn Cannon
Published in the United States
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The Mustang gave out about a hundred miles northwest of Austin, slowly easing onto the shoulder of the road. Claire Lance climbed out of the car and stood on the asphalt, staring at the gauzy white cloud of smoke lifting lazily from beneath the faded blue hood. She wished, for the first time since the damn things had been invented, that she had a cell phone.
Lance put her hands on her hips and looked back down the road in the direction from which she had come. The road stretched for miles of nothingness, the scenery occasionally broken up with scrub brush or the corpse of a mangy coyote. She looked ahead, at the road she would have been driving if the car hadn't given out, and saw more of the same. She hadn't paid much attention to the scenery while she drove, and this road had been perfect for that. No gas stations, no quaint little towns promising last chance gas, just her and her memories, which was probably why she hadn't noticed the car's pleas for help until it was too late.