The Great Oak
Rob swings the door of the old Ford pickup, and it squeaks before clunking shut. He puts a hand on the truck to steady himself. His tongue feels like someone crammed a wad of cotton in his mouth, soaked in whiskey and blood.
He flicks a glance at the back of the truck, then across the field to where the great oak stands on the hill, black against the midnight sky.
_I know,_ Rob thinks, looking away from the tree. _I know what I gotta do. Jus’ gimme a goddamn minute._