Grandpa Al radioed coordinates during the Korean War. He was quiet, loved his Yankees, and sipped O’Doul’s in the summertime. He had a fake leg and owned a ukulele, too – A sweet, beautiful instrument boxed up in his basement. I can see him now. He’s smiling. Sipping. Strumming and plucking.
When the lightning danced across the sky and the deep thrum of thunder carried out across the plains for the fifth night in a row, he knew the end had come. Torrents of rain and softball-sized hail pounded all around him, devastating his crops, ripping through them like swinging scythes.
Blaise watched his wife from the cabana. She was ankle-deep in the Caribbean, collecting seashells – a perfect memory. When he gulped the thin mountain air, trapped in an icy crevasse, he inhaled her. Hypothermic, somewhere above Camp 4, he’d surely die. But the summer breeze would take him home.