The First Miles Out of Norfolk
The morning air carried that sharp, salt-laced chill peculiar to coastal Virginia in late October. My old Ford engine turned over on the second try—just like it always did once the plugs warmed up—and settled into a steady, comforting purr. Jason sat in the passenger seat, his canvas duffel bag zipped shut at his feet. He looked different in daylight without the heavy shroud of shame that had weighed him down all summer. He looked lighter. Still cautious, but ready.
“You got the coffee?” I asked, shifting into reverse.
“Two thermos flasks,” Jason tapped the center console. “One black, one with just a splash of oat milk. Just like you briefed me.”
I let out a low chuckle, easing the steering wheel as we backed out of the driveway. Walt stood on his porch holding a mug in one hand and raising two fingers in a silent salute. Down the street, the maple trees were shedding their golden coats across the pavement.
