The old man walks in the middle of the road, which circles tight as a noose round the mountain’s neck. He remembers before they made this road official, when it was dirt, mud, dirt again, every step a tiny explosion of dust. He didn’t walk in the middle then but in the place where grass gave way. He was young then and went downhill to make something of himself. Trees still lived by the road, leaned down far enough he could pull a leaf for a minute’s companion. The first asphalt cracked, left a heavy gray ledge on the edges. Black holes laughed, bit at passing tires. He had to pick his path more carefully then, coming up from who he was in the flat land. He can’t walk far now, has no need to go up or down, but he walks anyway, always in the middle.

Bio: Hilary King