While the Bimbleys were reconnecting after weeks of extra-famial (i)breakout a little(i), another car drove up.  "They're not gonna just leave us here!"  The normally calm and cool, serious journalist, young woman slammed the door.  "Whaddaya mean?  I thought everything was all set!" 

     "Shit." 

     It wasn't two minutes of smoking the ashtray butts and slamming coffee before they drove up. 

     "Ready?"  A tall woman in a heavy longcoat rolled down the window and asked. She had a darkness about her, not sinister herself, you could tell, but like she was being pressed down on with something dark. 

     "No.  Mom.  I am not."  

     The woman rolled the window up again. 

     "What are we gonna do?  We can't be without you Rorie." 

     "You'll do fine." 

     "NO.  WE WON'T." I slammed a frying pan heating up cooking oil down on a rock almost in the fire.  The splattering oil snapped in the flames and singed my sweater.  Rorie didn't say anything like (i)look what you did stupid(i).  I used the spatula to smear the rest of the oil in the pan.  (i)Just start over(i) the Pastor's voice was in my head from dozens of times, me calm and cool to pitching a fit in thirty seconds.  "What's the good news?" 

     She took a hand out of her jacket pocket.  "He wants us to work it out!"  The little diamond caught the sun and sparkled like Rorie's sudden smile.  "Maybe almost drowning was the clincher." My mind drifted back to that terrifying day.  "But that was by no means on purpose," she added.  All of us hyper-aware that the rocky roads of war had us in carefully guarded territory, mentally well OR....