“I can hear the voices when I’m dreaming, I can hear them say…”

The tune rattled around Micah’s brain as he descended the steps of the Greyhound bus. Fourteen hours of idle sitting made itself known with every attempt at normal movement. With awkward tread he tried to simultaneously shake off the rust and make his way to the taxi stand under the fading blue light of neon signs.

Truth be told he hadn’t minded the time on the bus, time in which nothing could be expected of him. Fifty-some-odd years of moving, going, and doing left him a keen appreciation for momentary lapses in the unending grind towards death. Heaven help him, there were times when he loved them.

Now was not such a time. There was much to do, not enough resources, and nothing but burned bridges on which to rely. With any luck, hell a lot of luck, the matter would be settled in a hundred hours. That, or he’d be dead. Either way, he could get some rest again.

“Carry on my wayward son, There’ll be peace when you are done…”