38. Letter
Letter
Jackson,
I need to know if Kevin got his zip-line installed. You can’t leave me hanging on a cliffhanger like that. Mail can take up to two weeks to get out here, so by the time you read this, Kevin’s zip-line has probably been hit by the storm. Let me know the verdict.
Your hotel coffee can’t possibly be worse than what we have here.
Ours comes in a giant green plastic jug, looks like crude oil, and I’m pretty sure it’s corrosive.
Brody uses it to strip the grease off truck engines.
I still drink three cups a day because sleeping is a luxury we don’t really get right now.
When I can’t sleep, I don’t do push-ups.
My joints hurt too much for that. I usually just go sit on the hood of one of the flatbeds near the flight line.
There’s no light pollution out here in the middle of nowhere, so the stars are blinding.
It’s the only quiet time I get. I lie back, look up at the sky, and read your letters in my head.
I find myself wondering if you’re looking at the same stars from whatever hotel window you’re staring out of. It makes the ocean between us feel a little bit smaller.
Splash