Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. -Percy Bysshe Shelley
"Danny," Drake whispers. "We're here."
I open my eyes and stretch. The motion pulls the tender and extremely bruised flesh over my ribs, causing me to wince.
"You okay?" He appraises me with keen eyes.
"Yeah, I'm just sore."
The word sore, in this case, is an understatement. In all actuality, it feels more like someone took a baseball bat and played whack-a-mole on my ribs or played them like a xylophone.
Once out of the plane, I follow Drake to the rental car. He opens the door, then waits for me to buckle my seat.
Sitting behind the wheel, he retrieves his phone and activates the GPS tracking. The female voice on the phone spouts off, giving directions.
Head back and eyes closed, I'm caught in a never-ending loop of questions and doubt. What will I find at the final destination? Will there be answers or more questions?