I knew this fact without ever looking at a clock. It had taken me almost three months of discipline to accomplish. Now, it happened like second nature—even after a day as fucked up as yesterday. Pulling off the covers, I went straight to the bathroom. Everything progressed along like the cogs of a damn wheel in a grandfather clock. I put on a T-shirt and old athletic shorts before slipping into my running shoes. Leaving the trailer, I felt the heat of the early sun as it rose in the sky. Sweat soaked my shirt even at this hour in the morning. I followed the familiar dirt path in the worn pasture grass—one I could’ve run even on the blackest of nights from memory. My actions were not for the physical exercise. Instead, they served as more of a reminder of my confinement. I wanted to feel the exact extent of my prison. Each morning, I ran a path based on my ankle monitor—every step exactly four inches from where the box would signal the authorities. It took me over a week to get it marked out with precision based on the yellow warning light.
What do You think about Waiting For Wyatt (Red Dirt #1)?
