When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

Sweetwater, Virginia November 20, 2016 Wade Pierce stared at the blinking cursor with gritty eyes. It still wasn’t right. Three hours on one damn scene, and it still wasn’t right. Nor was bashing away at it for another three hours likely to fix the problem. It wasn’t the scene; it was him. He was edgy and unfocused, buzzy from way too much coffee. Frazzled, he shoved back from the table and padded to the fridge for a Mountain Dew, then opted for a bottle of water instead. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. He took a long pull as he opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out onto the deck. The air was heavy and gray, thick with the scent of damp ground and distant wood smoke. It was a good smell, an earthy smell. No bus fumes or car exhaust. No reek of trash or piss-soaked alleys. He filled his lungs, scanning the rolling hills that rimmed the town of Sweetwater. The foliage that had set the hilltops ablaze in recent weeks was gone now, leaving behind a landscape that seemed to mirror