Scene At Dawn: Prologue
swish-thunk. swish-thunk. The sleet driving in makes driving out nearly impossible, but sometimes impossible's a necessity. Sitting in the driver's seat of his '93 Dodge Dart, he doesn't need to glance over at the man in the passenger seat. He knows from experience the other man's tie will be loose, his dark hair slightly mussed, and he will have his rimless glasses on as he makes notes on his laptop. This is not the first late-night car-write they've done, though admittedly the Virginia winter is a little harsh this year. Third straight day of nasty frigidity, and the campaign trail makes it even more miserable. Polish the silver, polish the gilt words; and now he does look over at his driving companion. They are on their way to meet the others at the hotel now. Returning his eyes to the road, he is unprepared for the solid pavement which had been reliably whooshing beneath his tires to be replaced with nothingness—no traction, wild spinning, oh god, there's a pole up there—