1923

A laundry truck pitches madly through the forest.  Tires rock the rutted road, crashing into and laboring out of deep puddles.  Water flows in an undisturbed sheet down the windshield.

The driver squints.  A yellow slicker swims into view.  A horrid squeal of mud-coated brakes as the driver tears off his own coat.  He tosses it atop a bundle on the seat next to him.

But there is no need.  The man in the slicker waves him on.  Another gestures towards a space between two larger trucks.

He chokes out the engine.  Fog clouds the glass.  He unstraps the door and peels it back.  The truck on his left has something painted on the side – it’s a camera on a tripod.   Someone inside shouts over the rain.  “Betcha we’re not shooting until this lets up?”

“I betcha right.”

“Enjoy your day off.”

He straps up the canvas and the fog reappears.  He picks up the baby.  The plan had been to ditch the truck somewhere and find a dry rock to sleep under.  Not much of a plan.  Maybe this is better.

A burst of lightening reveals a clearing in the dark woods. He’s part of a camp of two dozen vehicles.  A movie crew.

He holds the tiny girl in his trembling arms.  “This is better.”

The Story So Far