American Blues - Prologue Will peered through the porch screen mesh, searching for the slightest movement or smudge of brightness in the inky woods. A tremor of excitement fluttered in his stomach, tinged with just enough fear to make him slightly nauseous. He tried to tell himself it’d be better if Dory didn’t show up—would be a relief. But the reaction of his fifteen-year-old body to the thought of her told him it was a lie. He gripped the boxy guitar by the neck and sat back, propped his b...

Will pushed the brim of his hat back and squirmed to find a comfortable position on the scarred wooden bench. Rested his left foot across his knee and used a discarded matchbook to scrape off a gray wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. The air, close and pungent with bus fumes, made his nose itch and eyes water. Sweat ran down his back and dampened the spot where his shirt pressed against the seatback. A layer of lost hope and apathy hung in the air of the Memphis Greyhound station lik...