![]() ![]() The name I'd been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I'd been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn-just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road-I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." When I'm abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. Where is the stupid bus? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? Why couldn't I own a car, like practically every other senior? But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. It had never struck me how vulnerable I'd been all those mornings I'd waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. He must have realized I'd spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. The tree's low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. ![]() ![]() He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. ![]()
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