It is raining and the water drops heavily onto the dark wood and tin above her head. She looks down at her hands. They are folded like claws holding her sodden woolen coat closed over herself.  There is s bobbing yellow light off in the distance and she feels a sense of exhilaration pumping through her veins. His face is craggy in the dim, eyes dark and somewhat menacing. He hands her a packet wrapped with twine. She tucks it swiftly inside her coat. There are no words, no acknowledgement. He melts into the trees by the road as silently as a ghost.

Anne’s eyes are slits. The white florescent light above her head buzzes an incessant tune. Her hands feel cramped and her hair is wet. Wet. She swallows the lump that forms in her throat.

Muffled voices fade in and out. She continues to stare at the ceiling above her prone form, unmoving.

Next Chapter: Rose, Monterey California, June 1967