(Please read Theron 1 before moving on to this book)
A stranger washes ashore on a deserted beach.
With no memory of who or what he is, the only clue he has to his identity--the only thing he recalls from his past life--is a single, solitary name:...
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One.
Two.
Three.
That's me.
Banging my head on this fucking window because being comatose is hella better than listening to Bug ramble on for one more fucking minute.
The kid has not shut her trap for longer than five seconds since we hopped in this damn semi and I'm fantasizing about what it would have been like if she actually did stay behind.
Peaceful and quiet.
That's what it would have been.
But because I'm a fucking idiot with an irrational fear of loneliness, I've had to endure four and a half goddamn hours of her childlike voice going non fucking stop and I cannot handle much more.
Not that she's talking to me. Oh, no. Apparently, Bug's forgiveness only comes in progressive steps. The fact that she is even by my side is just step one. Step Two might possibly be the end of her silent treatment but as of now, that's not even a blimp on the radar in the foreseeable future.
But suddenly everything changes.
In the blink of an eye, my senses perk up. My body tenses and my eyes are frantically scanning the scenery for the reasoning behind my sudden instinctual switch in demeanor.
The snow isn't as deep or abundant in Tennessee, most of it melting under the warm sun and leaving a muddy, slushy mess behind. The moist terrain accentuates hundreds of different scents and the anticipation with me is almost overwhelming.
There's something here...
Something in Tennessee.
My leg bounces up and down, an unconscious bodily attempt to alleviate the overabundance of adrenaline that is steadily flowing through my veins.
"Hey! Whats your tattoo about," Bug pierces the haze that had suddenly and rapidly consumed me and I welcome the distraction with open fucking arms. I watch as she studies the trucker's forearm in pure, innocent curiosity.
It's a very detailed and colorful image. The moon sits high in the sky, somewhat blocked by a grey and white wolf with its head thrown back in a frozen howl. The woodlands around it are green and lush and thick and I somehow find comfort in this artwork, though I don't understand why.
"Oh," he appears surprised, peeking away from the road to study his arm. He shrugs, nonchalantly, "it don't mean nothing. I just like wolves."
"B.G. has a tattoo as well, don't cha big guy?" She looks to me excitedly, as if tattoos are the most riviting thing in all the world... and apparently we have took a left fucking turn into Step Two territory. I only nod with a half hearted, "Yeah." My soul's attention is split between the going ons inside of the semi and out.
