No, I don’t know of any children’s home around here.” The waitress poised, pad in hand, and totaled my breakfast bill. She looked to be around forty-plus, certainly old enough to remember. And a place that big couldn’t just disappear. The woman refilled my coffee cup without my even asking and whisked away the empty plate. The doc had closed the clinic for the day because of his niece’s wedding and I’d taken advantage of my time off to drive almost eighty miles to the little foothill town of Hughes, North Carolina, where Summerwood was located. Now, having treated myself to sausage and biscuits, along with grits and red-eye gravy, at a tiny diner that was once a railroad car, I felt I’d driven into the Twilight Zone. “Summerwood Acres,” I said. “It’s only a few miles outside of town.” What little spending money we’d had never made it farther than here. Hughes was synonymous to me with movies and ice cream cones. How could anyone overlook more than a hundred children?
What do You think about Angel At Troublesome Creek?
