An hour before the appointed time, Paul stood at the midpoint of the Route 13 bridge, Rankin county to his left, Smith county to his right. The yellow-brown water of Purvis creek crept along, full of crawdads and frogs, poor oblivious creatures. He palmed his lucky penny, considered its insignificant heft, and dropped it.

Next went his shoes, ratty brown things rivaled in disrepair only by the socks that followed them. The Casio watch tumbled unceremoniously through the languid air. Finally he pried off his belt buckle, a hulking mass of pewter, ornate decorations surrounding a bucking bronco mid jump. Its splash was biggest.

Ruefully he recited to the crickets and clamoring cicada, “Riches profit not in the day of wrath, but righteousness delivereth from death.” The words gave him little comfort, but there wasn’t much else to do but stare at the steadily dimming sky, all oranges and menacing tinges of purple, heralds of coming darkness.

He almost didn’t hear the car pull up, so deep were his thoughts.