Why don’t you see what Steve’s up to, said my mother. 

True, I was bored. TV was all Watergate hearings. Summer dragged, a lake being searched for bodies.

Pears in the yard, drooped on the tree, hard and bitter. 

The quarter mile to Steve’s house was nothing. Even barefoot. I scuffed the cuffs of my jeans, dusty traces of hippiedom.

As I crested the hill on Steve’s lane, his grandmother pulled up, navigating a big boat of a sedan. It was only another 100 yards, but she said, Get in.

Steve’s older brother Larry was in the front, smirking. In the back of my skull, a warning burr. 

Don’t Talk to Strangers.

Was his grandmother a stranger? Not really. Still, I paused before climbing in. Thankfully, no Nixon on the radio. Only “Shambala,” and the cool blue backseat.

I could toughen the soles of my feet, but always had that hitch in my step. Hesitation rarely served me well in future years. 

Missed rides, skipped chances.

Larry looked over his shoulder.

Now we can write the ransom note, he said.

I didn’t laugh right away. 

I hesitated.

About the Author:
Steve Saulsbury became intrigued with flash fiction during Covid 2020. Since then, his work has appeared in many online journals and several printed collections, including the 2024 London Independent Story Anthology. He lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

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