Chapter17

#Chapter17

SHONDRA

Twelve years ago (one hour before)

I shuffled my feet, crunching the leaves under them. The fir trees, dead leaves, and wet earth, combined to make the perfect scent to herald the death of summer and the coming of winter or what I called the fragrance of fall. I stood still and tilted my head to face the sun. Drawing in a deep breath, I savored the smell of Heaven.

Summer, with its oppressive heat, made people act up in the summer. There were more shootings, more robberies, and during a summer barbecue my uncle—

/"Hey Shondra!/" Ms. Jenkins called from her stoop, putting an end to thoughts I always tried to suppress.

Round, doughy, and on disability, Ms. Jenkins was a permanent fixture outside. No matter the weather—blistering heat or frigid wind—she sat in her weathered rocking chair like a bird on a wire. Her keen eyes taking in everything.