He’d dreamed of rain that night and felt peace and the last thing that he wanted to do was to wake up and face yet another sunny day. However, like clockwork, his eyes begrudgingly opened at 7:03 am. “Fuck!” he thought, “Fuckin’ Fuck.” It was already 89 degrees.

After dressing, Gerald pulled on his boots, lacing them with care and precision, sipped the last dregs of his coffee and opened his front door to the hot dusty world that he had always known. His feet blindly carried him to his truck, and his Ford pickup drove him to the edge of town. He looked out. Out his window; out past Wellington and the road stretched for an eternity.

Golden wheat, blue skies. Dirt roads that led to the edge of their world.  Gold and Blue and shades of brown.

Somewhere, far down that road, there were places Gerald barely had the courage to dream about. And he turned the key, let the engine die and sat there, contemplating what he must do. And the children of Pondero’s Farm ran to the edge of their fields, folded their arms over the top of the wooden fence, intertwined their legs in the middle logs and watched Gerald. They knew what he would do. He would turn his truck around and head back into town as he did every time. An hour would pass. Two. And then the kids would welcome him back to Wellington with waving arms.  He loved these children, they always let him return. He hated these children; they always knew that he couldn’t leave.

 
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