I wrote this short story a few years ago on a whim, building it around

that first sentence and just following the story where it took me.

The cloyingly sweet smell of honeysuckle hangs heavy in the air, devoid of any merciful breeze. My clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin, and I curse my situation once more as I flap the bottom of my shirt up and down in a vain attempt to manufacture some cooler air.

Flap. Flap. Up. Down.

The mindless rhythm soothes me and I settle back into my former position -- perched carelessly on the cottage steps, legs akimbo and reclined back on my elbows. The porch hurts, pressing a pebble into my skin, and I flick it off and lean back again.

The beauty of my serene surrounding is not lost on me, yet I barely register much more than the heat and the motionless water of the small lake a couple dozen yards away from my feet. Under normal circumstances I would have been glad of the solitude and chance to relax. But not now.

I glance over my shoulder through the screen door at the television in the corner of the dusty living room. The images flicker rapidly, the sound a distorted hum of unintelligible words. I sigh.

The news station is playing last night's big story again and I am glad again of the broken sound, as it means I don't have to hear my name repeated over and over, accompanied by speculation and disapproving head-shakes. I frown slightly and push myself to my feet. My jeans are stuck to the back of my sweaty legs, and I peel them loose and shuffle down the gravel path toward the lake.

A flock of birds scatter from the tall grass on either side of the winding path and I kick a spray of stones after them.

"Get out of here you bird brains," I shout after them and mentally criticize my third grade insult.

Everything had been fine, just fine, up until yesterday at 5pm. I had been leaving the office of my employer when they appeared, badges gleaming in the sunlight that slanted in through the blinds in the foyer.

"Mr. Robeson in?" the lead man asks, and I squint as the gleam blinds me for an instant.

"He's not here," I say and my gaze trails off toward his office on the left. The officer's gaze follows mine and with an almost imperceptible nod he directs his partner toward the door.

Without a moment's hesitation I bolt, shoving the officer to the side in the instant of his distraction. He breaks a lamp on the way down and by the time he regains his feet I am across the street and tearing down the sidewalk, shoving people left and right out of my way. I'm not big, but I'm not small either and a few people even move out of my way.

I duck into a side street and behind a trash bin, listening to the policeman thunder by. I can hear how out of breath he is, his gasps and snorts sounding like my fat cousin with sleep apnea. My lip curls in disdain and I rise and run again, out the other side of the empty street.

Three blocks away I stop at the liquor store where I know Old Man Hampton insists on leaving his Chevy unlocked and the keys in the sun visor.

"It's not safe these days," I'd say to him on more than one occasion, but he'd scoff and wave his leathery old hands.

"No one wants that old beater," he'd snort and spit a stream of tobacco juice at my feet, staining the ground and my shoes. "It's not worth squat." And he'd spit again.

Now I slide behind the wheel, close my fingers over the keys without looking up and insert them into the ignition. No one is in sight as I ease the rusty rattletrap onto the street and drive off in the direction I had just come.

That was yesterday. Now it is today.

Read the rest of the story here.