The old people lived out in the country. Where it was boring. Where her friends didn’t. The mention of a visit cut like a hangman’s noose. Grayson’s stomach twisted in knots. “I don’t want to go.”
“It’s only for the weekend.”
“You can’t leave me there.”
Grayson folded her arms. Telephone poles pulsed by. Hopefully, they’d never get there.
She followed the geezer—call me Grandma, she’d said—to the neighbor’s.
The farmer smiled. “Would you like a peach?”
He picked one. Handed it over.
Sweet juice filled her mouth. Sticky ran down her arms.
“It’s pretty good.”
Picture is copyright by Bruce Tuten.