Friday, August 19, 2011


I need some sleep. Eight hours of driving equals a very tired Grace.

At another motel. Starting to get used to the itchy bedspreads, tacky wallpapers, and continental breakfasts.

Flipped through Echo again. Slip of paper fell out from one of the pages. This was written on it:

"Wzw zodzbh olevw svi nliv. R'ev zxxvkgvw gszg. Dsvmvevi sv dlfow erhrg, sv dlfow hdvvk svi rm srh zinh zmw hslfg 'Zs, nb orggov Qfwb!' Rg dlfow lmob yv zugvi z uvd nrmfgvh lu sfttrmt gszg sv dlfow hzb, 'Zmw dsviv rh nb orggov Kfmxs? Dsviv rh nb Kfoxrmvooz?' Sv dlfow sft nv, yfg mvevi zh sv sfttvw svi."

No idea.

So tired. Bed looks so comfortable.


1 comment:

  1. Dad always loved her more. I've accepted that. Whenever he would visit, he would sweep her in his arms and shout 'Ah, my little Judy!' It would only be after a few minutes of hugging that he would say, 'And where is my little Punch? Where is my Pulcinella?' He would hug me, but never as he hugged her.