Sam woke up today and asked himself that age old question.
“Why?”
I would have told him the answer, too, if I had any clue as to what it was. Instead, I remained silent. After all, what could I say that hadn’t already been said? The floor, all tile and linoleum, was icy cold and unswept. Small specks of sand and dirt clung to Sam’s feet as he walked toward the old bathroom. There was a gun on the nightstand. It was empty but the metal barrel still flickered ominously in the dawn’s light. Somewhere, I heard a wracking, hacking, cough that seemed to echo from every part of the old motel in which we were staying.
Why, indeed?
The water from the shower kicked on and Sam let it run for a full minute before the rusty red from the pipes finally cleared away. At least it was hot. Small bits of steam rose and obscured the bathroom. Everything became wet and the cold of the floor quickly spread to faucet handles and walls. The steam warmed the air, though, and Sam breathed it in with slow, steady, breaths. This was meditation
..and preparation.
