He had once heard his pappy talking about driving down these old Coffee County roads in a 1991 Trans Am, usually at incredibly high speeds, to hear him tell it. Terry tried to imagine it, but kids of his generation didn’t dream of cars. He felt lucky enough to have a bicycle. His bike was handed down twice before he got it as a graduation gift. He was the third generation to own it, but only the second to ride it. The idea of trying to wash all of the clay mud was forcing Terry to choose his path carefully, but he was beginning to feel the pressure of time. The sun was getting high and hot. He wasn’t too thrilled with the thought of camping out in the wilds of the county at night. Even though the population had been thinned out considerably during the Breakdown, there were still plenty of folks tucked out in the sticks who had not been seen in town for years and typically thought the crisis was still underway. Those people usually shot first, then stole anything they could find on a body. He finally wobbled over the crest of the rise, and with a long view of the curving descent, abandoned himself to the thrill of a ragged downhill run to the Duck River.
