A small tornado of leaves swirled toward a black wrought iron gate. Bending this way and that, like a drunken man searching for a tavern door, it passed through the metal framework of the gate and deposited the leaves in a mud-choked river. The gate had been fashioned years ago by a skilled craftsman. A dark-haired woman drew near. Timidly brushing aside a handful of spider webs, she peered through an opening in the gate….
Shiloh sat motionless in the lobby of the psychiatric facility. She hadn’t been there in months. The orange, plastic chair had a bent leg which made it tilt slightly to the left. Still the same. The only thing different was the girl behind the counter. Shiloh’s hair fell around her shoulders. She allowed a few locks to hang over her face. Her maroon hooded jacket and sweat pants sported a bright-yellow devil holding a pitchfork….