Daybreak

Foreboding premonition is the worst type of poison. It eats at your core, shoving in its pins and needles. You want desperately to get on with what you must, like a thoroughbred chomping at the bit, but the starting gun never fires. Anticipation rips your soul, like a carrot dangling on a string in front of a hopeless mule. The sun felt doomed for eternity never to shine, like Sisyphus pushing his boulder, morning light seemed an endless goal and elusive target. It was well past midnight before Luke’s brain slowed enough to drift away, only to be woken time and time again, dreadful apprehension preventing a deep and calming slumber.

Luke was up and ready well before daybreak. He walked downstairs. The kitchen light was on and a smartphone provided the Sunday morning news.

“I made some eggs. Do you want toast?” Nancy was dressed in blue jeans and a Penn University sweatshirt; her hair pulled up and tucked under a Phillies cap.