Flight by Neil Hetzner
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Flagging and Flogging
Bob Tom’s plan is to fly east until he is out of sight before veering north and west. He’ll fly over the northern end of Manhattan to the Hudson. His figures he’ll save his dwindling strength by hitchhiking a ride back to Albany on a tug. After that, he should be rested enough that it won’t be a problem to make his way home.
As the old man slowly flaps his wings, he thinks of all the things that will bring him comfort. Hot coal coffee, charred meat, a rising moon breaking through the river’s fog, the skirrying sound of his feet in winter dried weeds. Home and habit.
Bob Tom sighs, but, suddenly, a bellow, a mix of anger and anguish, explodes from his lungs.
He’s choking on his lie. Home won’t be home, and there will be no comfort found if he doesn’t finish what he has started. That thought, which he knows to be true, adds an immeasurable weight to the old man’s wings. In the middle of the giant blue bowl of sky, Bob Tom Damall feels as trapped as a mink in one of his snares. He cries out a second time. He cants his wings and edges north. Seconds later he is back on an easterly heading. As his indecision grows, so does the weight of his wings. The old man wastes energy in the open sky as he slaloms back and forth between the dangerous demands of Scylla and Charybdis.
Flagging and Flogging
Bob Tom’s plan is to fly east until he is out of sight before veering north and west. He’ll fly over the northern end of Manhattan to the Hudson. His figures he’ll save his dwindling strength by hitchhiking a ride back to Albany on a tug. After that, he should be rested enough that it won’t be a problem to make his way home.
As the old man slowly flaps his wings, he thinks of all the things that will bring him comfort. Hot coal coffee, charred meat, a rising moon breaking through the river’s fog, the skirrying sound of his feet in winter dried weeds. Home and habit.
Bob Tom sighs, but, suddenly, a bellow, a mix of anger and anguish, explodes from his lungs.
He’s choking on his lie. Home won’t be home, and there will be no comfort found if he doesn’t finish what he has started. That thought, which he knows to be true, adds an immeasurable weight to the old man’s wings. In the middle of the giant blue bowl of sky, Bob Tom Damall feels as trapped as a mink in one of his snares. He cries out a second time. He cants his wings and edges north. Seconds later he is back on an easterly heading. As his indecision grows, so does the weight of his wings. The old man wastes energy in the open sky as he slaloms back and forth between the dangerous demands of Scylla and Charybdis.