A forest of old, sappy pines surrounded the cabin, a cloying blanket that dampened distractions emanating from the outer world. The pain and the violence of the recent weeks now but a bruised shadow, a wizened watcher; the one who watches of the one who waits. Lenny Bellows is restricted, to the fire heated couch, restricted to watching the flames burn fallen branches. He combs his long, dirty blond hair with languid strokes. His strands are glistening light, moving in suspension, throughout the convective air of the main room.
The novel Tom Petty Died For Your Sins lies face down on the polished burl table, the cover photograph adorned with wry image of the namesake.
“The ways of this world are perilous,” he whispers, and with a wide smile he leans back and really relaxes.