The Nest

The cop cars cruise on the edge of Jacksonville, between the barracks and The Nest. The Nest is the official unofficial club of the undergrads, and at night it is not uncommon to see a line of bobbing faces eagerly awaiting to get in. I drive past, slow and showing the scars of a recent wreck. Every other car seems like a potential bomb ready to go off, magnetic mines drifting closer to me.

The doctor has removed Allison's pins from her wrist. One slid out easily, the other was wedged in bone and so they had to hold her arm down as they yanked it out.

We've been told that full use of her wrist may never return. Physical therapy starts next week.

Meanwhile I make the daily pilgrimages from Anniston to Jacksonville flinching when cars are careless, slowing like terrified minnows with my fellow motorists when we see those cruising cop cars like sharks on the hunt.

And I hope The Nest is fun for the patrons tonight, tonight as I drive past billboards and church signs, ready to rest with her again.