Cemetery Street

His tone turned somber. "You've been like the brother I never had. If anything happens to me, help Bear take care of things. You make sure everybody is okay."

"Sure thing," I answered.

"Cool," he repeated. "I have to run. Wish me luck."

"Good luck; give' em hell."

"Good-bye James," he said.

"Godspeed dude," I answered.

The line went dead.

Godspeed? I questioned the persistent dial tone. Where the fuck did that come from? I stared at receiver. It wasn't part of my vocabulary. A sour taste settled in my mouth as I returned the receiver to its cradle. Count never said Good-bye, ever!

I spent many late summer and early autumn evenings in my perch; gazing past rows of gravestones towards the converted chapel. I witnessed the dying sun pursued across the cemetery by dusk's melancholy gray. Each night, the security light atop the maintenance shed light flickered on, a lone sentinel against eternal blackness.

He'll be all right, I tried convincing myself. As desert shield drug on, my doubts deepened. Hope seemed fleeting as the late autumn sun.