And cold. That last call had left a bad taste in my mouth. Not because of my patient and her boyfriend; I was no prude. It was the setting. All that glitz. And the knowledge that most of my colleagues would think nothing of spending one or two nights there didn’t help my mood. The contrast between the gaudy decor of the Rodney Motor Inn and the scene before me was startling. Bare fields. Empty sky. Clean, cold air sweeping through me like a broom. Uh-oh. A barrier of orange cones like witches’ hats blocked the entrance to the little concrete bridge that I usually took over Stow Creek. And there was a new sign: DETOUR. I turned right and peered through the darkness for the next sign. There wasn’t one. After a few miles I turned left, then left again. Logically, this should return me to the direction I wanted to go. Another few miles revealed no familiar landmarks. Don’t tell me, after all these weeks, I had managed to get lost—again? I slowed down, searching the landscape. No landmarks.
