“They’re just stories.” Maggie’s voice was soft but resolute, like a doctor describing an unfavorable diagnosis. “But you’ve got it in your head — I don’t know, maybe you really do think they’re real. But whatever it is, it’s affecting everything you do. You’re not eating right, not showing up for work, you’re not meeting with your family . . . spending too much time at Jack’s Joint — ”
bur-REEET. Standing closest to the phone lying amidst a clutter of socks and boots in the corner of the trailer’s living area, Charlie reached down and picked up the receiver.
A curt greeting, then a look of worry spread silently across his face as he listened.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie sounded torn between annoyance and concern.
“All right.” Charlie squatted, slammed the received back down on the phone, stood up quickly. A quick explanation and he hustled out of the trailer, followed by a disbelieving Maggie.
Five minutes into their drive in his pickup, they saw orange on the horizon.