I was in Smith's Mills for those 2 weeks. Or, some of those two weeks, I can't be sure.
But whatever I was doing, I was panicked. Panicked and sick. Out by the old spring-fed pools that flow through the town, down into the millpond. Would these explain the bruises and scratches I was covered with?
I wonder. Did I leave the archives box in or near the town somewhere? And my research journal? I have to get that back.
It's getting to be that time of year where families, no matter how fragmented and dysfunctional they may be, want to force themselves together. When I go to visit my hometown, I might go to Smith's Mills, see if I left anything behind. See if I can find anything new.
Maybe this sounds like a bad idea. Maybe I should be frightened. I'm an old hand at fear. I barely remembers what it feels like to be surprised at being afraid.