The Crossroads

Sweat pouring down his face, the old man finally cut a smooth edge across the top of the stump.

“Pop?”

He could hear his son off in the distance, near the house, but didn’t answer.

A young man in blue jeans and a leather jacket appeared in the small clearing near the stump. A man with slicked-back hair. Pasty flesh. Cold and evil eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The old man dropped his chain saw and clutched his chest. Tried to breathe. The saw’s razor-sharp blade chewed through the toe of his work boot.

Mr. Mandica toppled sideways.

Clint Eberhart laughed and vanished into the soft night air.