Epilogue
From the forest's edge, Clay’s eyes watched the black pickup truck arrive at the crest of a distant hill. Gravel dust rose and trailed close behind as if attached. He lost sight of the pickup truck as it vanished from his view. His eyes surveyed his blood-stained blue jeans. His shirt was tightly wrapped around his left thigh, which stopped blood flow. Garnering strength, he walked to the road's edge. He shielded his eyes with his bloodied hand to block out the glaring sun. He lifted his arm and, with an exhausted wave, signaled the oncoming pickup truck.
His eyes shut as road dust assaulted them. The dust engulfed him and the pickup truck as the passenger door opened. He steadied himself with an outstretched arm and gingerly pulled himself onto the seat. He grimaced as a shockwave of pain radiated from the bullet wound throughout his body. Settled in his seat, his arm stretched, closed the door and fell between the seat and the door. A woman's hand came to rest on the back of his neck. Remembering their mutual adolescent relationship, she affectionately said, “Hi, baby.” She scanned his body and surprised, her voice registered worry. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s only a flesh wound. I’ll survive. Let’s go.”
Nothing better than a tough, rugged character like Clay.