an accident occurs while plowing.
Thoughts race, pinging from one side of the skull to the other, slowed
only by the mass of fear that has enveloped the brain.
"There must be some compasionate thread left in the boy."
This time, words part from the lips and drift wantingly into the cool
morning air.
"This silly leg injury will be the death of me" you think to
yourself, afraid to say it out loud.
