I’m at a fork in the road, and I know it. It’s that moment in many of the books I’ve read, with two paths before the heroine. One is shadowy. An owl hoots. Leaves rustle. The other is sunlit. Birds twitter. The path is wide and well trod. A snort of self-amusement sneaks out of me. Well trod. I may be a tad overdramatizing this.
