by Afrikate

When Chris finally managed to track him down, he found JC holed up in a beach house in Narragansett. JC had sighed a lot and looked put out, but Chris figured that just being let inside was a good sign right now. He brushed off the sighs and pattered on breezily about the drive and the weather and the tiny airport he'd flown into, until JC gave in and said, "Would you like to have some dinner?"

They ended up driving out to a small shack that sold 'clamcakes and chowduh', and they sat at a picnic table surrounded by sunburned parents and their tired-hyper kids and ate quietly. JC wasn't talking and Chris decided not to push - for now - that he'd do better once they were both more relaxed. Of course, he probably wasn't going to relax until they talked about why he'd come, but still. Yeah. It would be better to wait.

Eventually they finished up the chowder and split the last deep-fried dough cake and JC stood and balled up their trash to toss it away. Then they headed back to the car and drove down the coast a bit, through a huge stone arch with towers at either end. Chris could smell the ocean through the open windows and what was it about that smell that always made him feel calm. Or calmer, in this case. A little way past the towers was a beach where you could walk, so they stopped there, JC saying something about watching the sunset. JC loved sunsets, spent hours of his life watching them. Chris had asked why, once, and JC had rambled on about the colors and the music they made. Chris had nodded and smiled and pet him a bit, because he could. JC took off his sandals, and Chris followed, pulling off the track shoes he was wearing. They stowed them in the car, then headed down onto the sandy beach. JC headed towards a point of rocks in the distance, Chris tagging along.

They remained quiet all the way up there, JC making occasional comments about how pretty it was, but beyond that, they seemed to have a tacit agreement not to talk until they reached the rocks. Or at least that's what Chris thought. Apparently JC had other ideas, because when they finally reached the point, after about fifteen minutes of slipping and sliding on the sand and splashing through the small waves as they flowed in, and Chris started to talk, JC set his face to the sun and said, "Not now, Chris."

Chris suddenly wanted to scream, despite how truly peaceful and calm it felt on that beach. He wanted to yell, "Then when, you prick, because running away hasn't solved anything!" He wanted to recount how, in the eight days since JC had disappeared Justin had almost stopped eating entirely and wasn't keeping down food even when he did. He wanted to rail at JC and force a fight, because Chris knew how to wound with words and he knew he could win. Maybe, if he browbeat him enough, he could force JC to come back, to help fix the mess they all created. He forced himself to take a breath, then another, and wandered farther out on the point to keep himself from seizing JC and shaking him, just shaking him until he saw sense. He knew that wouldn't work, that he needed to remain calm, because JC got stubborn, stubborn, stubborn when you made him defensive and forced him into a corner. And defensive JC could be a real rat, biting and snarling, ready to run past you and disappear again into his hole. And it had already taken too much time for Chris to track him down.

He was staring out at the waves now, a little hypnotized by them, calming a bit. He thought of Joe, who was holding them together, and of Lance, who had wanted to be the one who came. He'd argued against it, because he knew Lance would try to be logical and businesslike, and that JC would respond to that by shutting down, or worse, turning all lawyer-y. Incoherent, tangential JC was surprisingly enough easier to deal with than a JC who thought in a very straight, very narrow line. He'd been hell on Lou when finally pushed to it. Joey had recognized that, but Lance had argued and presented clear and rational points for being the one to come or at least for accompanying Chris. He was glad that Joey had finally stepped in with a firm, "No." But that almost made it worse, because then Lance kind of crumpled, and looked so sad and lost that Chris remembered the early days, when Lance had always looked that way. Joey had hugged Lance tight, whispering words of comfort, while mouthing over Lance's head to "find the fucker". He tried not to think of Justin, curled up on Joey's couch under a ratty old blanket they'd had since the first tour, staring blankly at the wall, barely rousing when they talked with him. About how his hipbones were getting more and more pronounced, and the spare flesh was falling fast from his frame.

While he was thinking and not-thinking the sun had been sinking slowly from sight, and he woke to dusky blue and swift-falling shadow, and shivered a bit -- the warmth was fading fast. He turned back to JC, unconsciously squaring his shoulders for a fight. But he didn?t say anything as he drew alongside, and together, unspeaking, they headed back down to beach and up to JC's car.

On the drive back to the beach house Chris was concentrating so much on the not-speaking, on actively keeping his mouth shut, that he barely caught JC's opening salvo.

"Do you ever feel like you've handed your soul over to everyone who asked for a piece, and one day you realized you kept nothing for yourself?"

"Oh, so this is about your soul, JC?"

"Of course it is." JC sounded surprised, and Chris wanted to beat him over the head. He controlled the impulse and said, "So tell me about the state of your soul."

The response was long and rambling, and talked about God and Shiva and change and "the industry" and how it was killing him, killing him to keep at it. "That's why--" he trailed off, and Chris, who'd listened to JC's justifications and reasons, and even agreed with him on some points, couldn't help but jump in with

"That's why you broke your lover's heart into a thousand pieces and broke up the band?" It sounded melodramatic after he said it, but it was true. And it hurt to say it out loud, to say "broke up the band" like it was true and real and so broken. It hurt him on an instinctive level that one of his best friends, a man who he thought of as his goofy, dorky, essentially harmless younger brother, was capable of wounding them, him so much and so easily. Perhaps that was the hardest thing about it, that JC had been so casual when he announced it, like he didn't care, had never cared. They'd all railed against that indifference, yelling at each other in JC's living room, and he'd never raised his voice once. After, when they'd all left, Justin stayed to try to reason with him. Instead, when Chris had gone to Justin's house the following day to see what had happened, Justin had been crushed and numb, barely talking, not eating. Chris had been furious, all for going after JC right then. He'd driven to his house, but JC was gone, long gone, and hadn't left any message at all.

JC drove, giving no sign he'd even heard Chris's outburst, staying quiet until he pulled into the driveway and shut off the car. "Yes."

It came out naturally, not flat and angry, not like he was responding to Chris's seething frustration with his own passive aggression. It sounded light, relieved almost, and Chris could barely believe it, couldn't believe it, really, that he knew this man who hurt people this casually. JC watched him a moment, then got out of the car, leaving Chris there in the dark. He sat in the car for a long time, listening to the sound of the waves and the call of the gulls above. Finally, he got out and went into the house. He'd half expected JC to look surprised, but JC just watched him calmly, a little warily, waiting to see what would come next.

Chris headed to the kitchen and got himself a glass of water, then returned to JC, who was standing in the living room. He stood a moment, then sank into one of the overstuffed chairs and demanded, "Tell me exactly what is going through your head."

"I told you," said JC, "back in the car."

"No, you didn't. You babbled about God and stuff and tried to justify ending ten years of friendship and two years of dating your best friend. Your best friend who, I might add, you pined over for years while he played straight and dated Brit. So c'mon, then. Tell me why you're leaving."

"I don't know how to make it any clearer," JC protested.

"Yes, you do. You tell the truth." Chris' tone was implacable, and he was starting to feel that way, like he was carved in stone and he would let JC throw himself against him again and again, until JC finally broke open and spilled this secret, this hidden reasoning. Chris was going to know, no matter what.

"Chris, that is the truth. I feel like I have no soul any more, like everything I do is geared towards making the fans happy, making the label happy, making you guys happy, making Justin happy. And none of it makes me happy any more. And I'm tired, so tired, of feeling like a shell, like I'm going through the motions. I want to be something real."

It was a surprisingly coherent statement from JC, and there was some passion in there as well. But Chris knew JC, even if he was the most opaque of the group, and there was something missing still. Something JC wasn't saying and Chris wasn?t catching, though it danced a bit on the edge of his comprehension so that he couldn't quite grab it. JC was a good actor, but he couldn't hide that he was leaving something out. So Chris reminded himself 'implacable' and said again

"Tell the truth. That's not all JC, I know that isn't. Tell me. Tell me the truth."

This time JC narrowed his eyes and glared at him, starting to grow upset, getting louder as he talked. "Chris, I am. Telling. You. The. Truth. I don't want to do this any more. I am tired of whoring myself out for all of you. I. Am. Done. Do you understand?"

He didn't give Chris time to respond, but stood and said, "I'm going to bed now, before I say anything I'll regret. My bedroom's at the top of the stairs on the right. Take any of the others." He strode out, then, movements still graceful, but a stilted, like he was angry and didn't want to show it.

Chris sat, after he left, staring at nothing, thinking about what had been said, and about what hadn't. He finally headed up to bed close to dawn, still chasing things over and over in his mind, worrying at the information he had, trying to find the bit that was missing.

They both woke late the next day, and it seemed neither had slept well. They kept to silence, but both were irritable and jumpy, they read it in each other's body language. The wind was blowing through the place and it seemed to match their moods, snapping hard through the house, throwing down loose knickknacks and tossing papers about. The air had an electric feeling to it, greasy and charged, and it ran down their skins, making them a little crazy. Chris was jittering all over the little house, still trying to figure out what it was that JC wasn't telling, and C had holed himself up in a side room, playing wild music on the piano. Finally, Chris decided to walk outside. It couldn't be worse than being cooped up in the house, he thought, and maybe fresh air would jar his brain, make that missing piece fall into place.

He went out the back door that opened right onto the beach, noting absently that the breakers seemed a lot higher than the day before. He thought, "high tide," then turned to his left and began walking up the beach, sand sifting between his toes. The air out here was no more comforting than it had been in the house; out here in the open it felt wild, forceful, aggressive, everything Chris was feeling towards JC. It drove him to run down the beach, whooping when he got to the end. He felt like a kid, tired as hell of playing adult, of trying to sort his way through JC's games and hold the rest of the guys together. He ran out to meet the waves, jumping and splashing and yelling.

He'd stayed out there playing for a long time when JC came running down, yelling something that got lost in the wind. He ignored him anyway, he was mad at JC, dammit, and he wasn't interested in talking to him. Not at all. He wanted to have fun, and JC was going to make him remember that he was supposed to be chasing down answers and fixing a friendship.

JC kept coming, though, and eventually he got close enough that Chris had to pay attention. He was gesturing wildly, and Chris could hear him shouting, even if he didn't know what about. He started in to the shore, the waves smacking into him, hard, nearly knocking him down. He hadn't realized he'd gotten so far out, and he was a little frightened by the time he got back to the beach. A last minute wave, bearing down on him from behind, smacked him down and washed over him. He landed painfully on his hands and knees, nose and throat burning from the water he swallowed and now was coughing up. JC ran to him, grabbing his arm and hauling him up. He started dragging Chris back in the direction of the house, shouting something. The wind took the words, though, whipping them away, and Chris had no idea why they were moving so quickly. He was still coughing, trying to catch his breath, the wind stealing it from him, leaving him gasping. By the time they made it back to the house his lungs were burning, and he felt like it was the encore of one of their shows. When JC slammed the door closed he wrenched his arm away and bent over, trying to get air. He concentrated on that for a bit, and when he could breathe easier noticed that JC was running around crazy, and it looked like he was taping the windows.

"C, C. JC! Slow down! What the fuck are you doing to the windows?"

"We're in the middle of a hurricane, Chris! We have to close all the windows and tape them up. We should have done this last night!"

"What? A hurricane?" Chris felt stupid and numb, not knowing what was going on.

"Hrm," JC made an impatient noise and kept working, talking over his shoulder. "I just turned on the TV and it's all over the news. A big hurricane is coming up the coast, it hit here about an hour ago, and we need to secure the house. I found candles and stuff, the power will probably go out, but we need to tape up the windows so if the glass breaks it doesn't go flying everywhere. And we need to crack a few open so the pressure doesn't make them break anyway." He handed Chris a roll of tape. "Go and do the upstairs windows. Leave at least one in each room open a couple of inches."

Chris took the tape and stared at it a bit, then looked back at JC. "Wait, we're in a hurricane? There's a hurricane happening right now?"

"Chris," JC was using his 'end of my patience' voice, "I just told you. Yes. A hurricane! Now! You need to go and tape those windows now!"

JC's voice cracked like a whip on the last words, getting Chris up and moving, running up to tape X's in the windows, opening two in every room. He moved as fast as he could, the wind had gotten even wilder, and the house was shaking. He wanted to get down to the first floor, and he wracked his brain for any information he could come up with about hurricanes. All he could remember was seeing giant mudslides on TV after Hurricane Mitch hit Central America. He wondered if he needed to worry about that. And he cursed JC for being the reason he was in the ridiculous state trapped on the beach, in a hurricane no less. He was frantic too, by the time he got back downstairs, scared and furious, spoiling for a fight.

"Did you get all the windows upstairs?" asked JC, holding his roll of tape and looking ready to go check on Chris' work.

"Yes, I got all the windows upstairs! What do I look like, some kind of idiot?!"

"Calm down, Chris," JC was trying 'soothing' now. "I just want to make sure we aren't going to have any trouble."

"But we do have trouble! In case you haven't noticed, we're in some back-of-beyond state, on a fucking beach, in a fucking hurricane! There is no good here." Chris was getting panicky, and snarly with it.

"Look, we'll be fine now, Chris. And you're the one who showed up on my door unannounced. So don't blame me because you ended up here!"

"Don't blame you? You asshole! You thought you could just drop that bomb on us and disappear? You didn't think anyone would follow? What. The. FUCK?!" Chris was furious now, and the wild feeling he?d had earlier was returning. "I can't believe you, JC! You self-absorbed prick! Do you even care what you did? Do you care that Justin is starving himself? That the rest of us don't know which way is up because you, JC fucking Chasez, can't deal. Fuck you!"

And something in that outburst finally struck a chord with JC, because he fought back, all his lazy, easy manner gone, and he was suddenly ferocious. "Fuck yourself, Chris! Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to leave you all? This isn't fun for me, Chris, holing up and hiding out, trying to keep my sanity by leaving everyone I love. It sucks! But I can't go back, I can't! It just hurts too much, he needs me too much, and I give him everything he wants. Everything you all want. And you don't do the same for me. You guys never see that I'm losing myself, piece by piece, one bit at a time. I've got about this much left, Chris," he held his thumb and forefinger close together, "and if I let go of that I'll never get it back!"

"You think you don't have pieces of us? You think you're the only one who gives? JC, you've got no fucking clue. We all barely have anything left of ourselves. We all keep giving away pieces of ourselves, every time we perform, every time we do another 'appearance'. But we give them to each other, too, not just the fans and the execs. And we keep them safe. You stupid fuck, if you want my piece back I'll give it to you!"

With that, Chris launched himself across the room. He hit JC?s midriff, tackling him to the ground, snarling and hitting. JC fought back, twisting and growling, surprisingly good in a fight. They wrestled across the room, clawing and punching, angry and wild. The wind howled outside, and the house shook, and somehow they were biting at each other's lips, snarling, scrabbling at each other?s clothes. It was vicious and feral, Chris pinning JC's wrists to the ground, holding him down, while his teeth scraped across JC's throat, leaving a dark bruise over his jugular. JC writhed and bit whatever skin came to hand, making pink marks that filled with blue-red blood under the surface. When Chris finally got inside, spit slicking the way, JC bucked violently, fucking Chris just as much as Chris fucked him. It didn't last long, it was too rough and bitter for that. When it was over they lay tangled together, limp as their rage left them.

Eventually, Chris stood up and gathered his clothes. The wind had calmed a bit, though the waves were still crashing. He dressed and turned to JC. "As soon as the hurricane's over I'll leave. I'll tell the others what you told me." He wandered into the kitchen then, to grab a drink.

Things were quiet after that, and the storm outside seemed to be calming. It was still cloudy and windy, rain occasionally splatting against the windows and the air had a heavy feeling, but Chris figured that a storm that size would take a while to die out. He threw the few clothes he'd brought back into a bag and headed downstairs to his rental car. He came back inside to say goodbye, not sure why, because in all this mess JC hadn't bothered with even the most casual politeness. But prick or not, JC was still one of his best friends. Or had been. And so he owed it to him, probably.

He stood in the doorway to the living room. JC was dressed again, sitting on the couch and watching TV. Chris stopped in and said, "Alright, I'm leaving now." The words came out almost hesitantly as he realized that this could be the last time he saw JC. Pain bloomed again, and he turned abruptly to head out to the car. Outside, the wind caught his jacket and tugged at his hair, as he walked to the car door.

"Chris, stop! Wait!"

This was what he'd been waiting for, the old JC, who was sane and normal, who would realize just how much of an ass he was being and say, "I'm sorry. I'll come back with you." Chris turned, waiting, and JC said, "This is just the eye of the storm, Chris. The rest will be hitting soon. You can't leave until it's over."

He stood for a minute, processing what he'd heard, and realized that it wasn't JC asking for forgiveness or promising to come home. His hopes fell, completely dashed, and it was like he went numb. "He's not coming," his brain repeated, over and over. "JC's not coming."

He almost left then, despite the storm, despite the fact that driving through a hurricane was probably a death wish. He just needed to be away, away from JC, and the group's problems, and just. Everything. But JC was standing near him now, close enough to touch, and repeating that it wasn't safe, that he needed to come back inside. And JC kept looking up at the sky, searching glances, watching out for telltale signs of a returning hurricane. After a few minutes, Chris did too, and a ways away it was getting darker, and the darkness was coming nearer. "Fuck," he muttered, and started back towards the house.

When they got inside, JC going on and on about the storm, Chris flopped into a chair, drained. JC continued his mindless chatter, wandering all over the room picking things up and putting them down. It was almost comforting -- this was what JC did. The pacing and chattering were so normal, so JC, that it hurt Chris to look at him. Instead, he closed his eyes and let the sound of JC's voice roll over him, and he tried to be invisible. In a couple of hours this would all be over. He wondered how long the numbness would protect him from the pain. He wondered if he'd make it back to Orlando before the shell broke, or maybe even until he told the guys. He didn't think so.

Chris zoned for a while, drifting on the familiar sound of JC's voice and the feel of the storm in the air, on his skin, like something buzzing in the background, low and expectant. He felt, not calm, but almost ok, like those things, the voice and the feeling were everything, like nothing else existed, and he was made by them, defined by them somehow. Something brought him out of it, though, and he scanned back trying to figure out what it was. The rumble of thunder, perhaps, in the distance? The wail of the wind, which hit again, moaning under the eaves of the house? Or something JC said?

"Wait, back up, what was that?"

JC looked startled, like he hadn't realized anyone was in the room still. Maybe he hadn't. JC got focused on things, and when that thing was you, then watch out, because you had all of his attention on you. But when he focused on something not there, he spaced out, became unaware of his surroundings. It seemed like that was the case now, like JC had started fixating on some point out that Chris couldn't see, would never be able to find. A few times, when he'd been really bored during one of the early tours, Chris had tried to find the point, see what it was that JC saw. It never worked, though.

Now, JC stared at him and said, "What?"

Chris watched him carefully, "You said something, something to me. What was it?"

JC was stuttering now, nervous and twitchy, and Chris wondered what he'd said, how bad it could have been for him to get this reaction now, after the past twenty-four hours. It didn't look like JC was going to answer any time soon, the way he was heading towards near incoherency with denial. Chris lost interest suddenly. It didn't matter anyway, and he told JC so.

He turned his eyes away then, going back to staring into space, trying to get back into that zone he'd been in, but the mood was broken now. He could hear the storm coming closer, the rain getting heavier and the wind picking up. He strove to find that place, and then JC's voice broke in, coherent this time, definite and strong.

"I said I'm in love with you."

Chris blinked and turned and it was his turn to stare, because he did not just hear that come out of JC's mouth. It was, it was inconceivable, so stupid and ridiculous. JC. Was in love. With him. JC had been in love with Justin since Justin turned 18, like he was legal so it was ok to be in love with him. He'd pined and mooned over him, too, and he'd talked to Chris about it the whole time. They'd all known, except Justin, who could be oblivious about things like that, but JC only ever talked about it with him. He knew that JC couldn't be telling the truth here, because JC loved Justin. It had been a certainty in his world for five years.

So he said to JC, "You're in love with me. Right, C, and that's why you are breaking up the band and leaving Justin as a wreck. Nice try."

JC stared at him, obviously surprised by his answer. Maybe he expected Chris to get angry again? Whatever. Chris had decided he couldn't be bothered with anger, not over something this ridiculous, a ploy this desperate.

"But I am. I've been in love with you for a while now. Since before the Grammies."

Chris wondered again at how bizarre it was that life events in his world were now marked off by which awards show happened closest to them. "Whatever, JC. Stop trying to blame me. Take some fucking responsibility."

He'd stopped watching JC after his latest revelation. It was too ridiculous and he didn't want to dignify JC's lame attempts to foist off the blame. And then suddenly JC's face was inches from his, and his eyes were wide and blue, staring into Chris's own. "I. Am. In. LOVE with you, Chris," he said, voice angry and harsh, "I have been in love with you for more than six months and I can't keep living like this. I pined for Justin for too damned long, and I'm not doing the same this time."

Chris just stared into JC's eyes. Eyes were supposed to be the windows of the soul, right? He couldn't tell if this was the truth or not from JC's eyes. Maybe all the camera flashes ate your soul. Whatever. He wasn't going to believe this. This was some of JC's bullshit, some line he was being handed. JC was in love with Justin, and Chris had been alone too long to even want anyone anymore. JC could go fuck himself, and Chris told him that.

At that JC got pissed, and now Chris was the focus on which JC had narrowed his sights. "No, fuck you, Chris. You know nothing about me, obviously. You used to pick up on shit like this so quickly. Now you just close your eyes and don't see, or won't see, what's right in front of you. I'm in love with you, and I'm not in love with Justin any more. I haven't been for a while. I mean, I love him, but I'm not in love with him. I can't be, his love is so needy, so desperate, that it was like he was eating me alive. I fell for you, Chris. I'm not sure why, maybe because that way you're the exact opposite. But I did! And I can't just forget about it!"

Something in that whole speech felt wrong, and something felt entirely right, and Chris was now too keyed up, angry and confused and just sick of this because, really, enough was enough. He stood up and got right in JC's face, nearly spitting he was so mad. "So let me get this straight, C. You fall out of love with Justin because he's needy and demanding, right? So for the last six months you've been fucking him because he's a good piece of ass, but not in love with him. And in the meantime, you fall for me. Me! Because I'm not needy. And so, what. You break up the band because you can't tell either one of us the truth? Because you're too chickenshit to admit it? Great, C, just great. Wonderful. I'm so glad I can go tell the guys that because in your mind you and Justin and I form some kind of sick, twisted love triangle, NSYNC is now missing the C!"

He turned to stomp away, but JC pulled him back, hand biting into his upper arm. "What would have happened if I just told, huh? Do you think Justin would have taken it any better than he is now? Maybe he wouldn't just be depressed and hating me, he'd be hating you too. How would you feel about that? Your best friend hating you? Do you think we would have survived that, that after a four month hiatus we would have been able to just jump back into the studio?" He laughed, then, harsh and bitter. "This way was better, trust me. This way everyone only hates me."

JC seemed to run out of steam there, and he dropped Chris' arm and turned away himself. Chris stared at him, and thought how very perfectly this little scenario fit JC's martyr complex, how this was exactly how JC would fall in love with him. And he took a minute to mourn the possibilities, because he did love JC, and could have been happy with him, had always had the odd thought, even when he'd been a goofy, spazzy boy, and Chris had already been a man for years. It was only a minute, though, and his anger flared because of it, because if JC hadn't been such a chickenshit, hadn't been such a martyr they might have been able to be happy together. Except that wouldn't have happened either, because he would have been busy trying to help Justin, who would have hated him, at least for a while, because he couldn't help it. And Chris would have resented JC for breaking up the band, just like he did now.

In the silence of the room the wind still roared and the breakers rose and crashed on the beach, while the rain attacked in waves. And Chris tasted hate and bitterness and defeat, bile in his throat and pain and loss curdling in his stomach. He wanted to fight and he wanted to leave and he wanted his life to be normal again, or popstar normal. JC was standing four feet away, trembling. He wanted to reach out to him, hug him, and maybe kiss him, a real kiss, not like that biting fury from earlier. But instead he hugged himself and went to the window to watch as the hurricane played itself out. For long minutes he watched, hands pressed against the window feeling smooth glass and rough tape beneath them. He let himself go numb again, and didn't think what he would tell the guys when he returned. Didn't think at all, just shuddered each time a particularly angry gust of rain smacked the house. Eventually he turned and found JC standing next to him, also watching the storm, which was fading for real this time, heading further up the coast.

Again the impulse to kiss JC was strong, but he resisted and merely said, "I'm going to go."

"Chris," said JC, so low and pained it hurt to hear. And then JC's lips were on his own, and JC's tongue was in his mouth, JC's arms sliding around his back. Chris pulled back, not fast, but not slow, and said, "Goodbye, JC."

He didn't look back as he headed out the door to the car, and he didn't lick his lips to get one last taste of JC. He simply got in and started the car, reversed out of the driveway, and headed back the way he'd come. The airport wouldn't have any flights, he knew, but eventually he'd get home. As he drove, the sky lightened a bit, but rain continued to fall, and he stared out at the wreckage, fallen trees and downed powerlines. He drove.

© 2002 afrikate Feedback is appreciated.