Randall Marcheuk felt claustrophobic on Route 4 in southern New Hampshire. There had not nearly been so many trees growing up in North Dakota. It made his lungs and muscles tighten up like ice. He had peered and peeked at every corner, anxious not to miss his destination but trying not to lose control. Never mind that the vanilla Toyota pickup, his only means of transportation, was rusting in some areas and yellowing. But thank goodness the man living in the weathered white country house on that road permitted him to take his vacant apartment. For a rent.
Entering Sue’s house, the lights around the interior were gold but not terribly bright, in fact they were pleasant. They illuminated some shades of crimson here and there. The carpeting was nice and rugged, too.
“Ah, Randall! There you are!”
Sue spoke with her cheerful, slightly deep tone as she walked forward. Her young son, Rob, around eight years old with short brown hair and a passive face, seemed at a loss as to what was going on in his own house.
“Hey! Thanks, Sue!” Randall replied, relief welling in his veins.
“You’re just in time, we’re about to start dinner.”
“Alright, thanks,” Randall added with a hint of tiredness.
Everybody started to gather at a somewhat long table with a linen cloth draped over it stood in the center of a neighboring room. Randall took his seat, settled in, and patiently draped his napkin over his lap.
Ellen Jayce was sitting across the table from him.
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