“Easy there, bro,” she warned, even as she returned the tight embrace.“I’m so sorry about the underwater thing,” I breathed. “I still feel...terrible about it.”“No sweat. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, because you hate doing laundry. And now you’re stuck doing it every day!”I laughed. “True. But it’s the folding part that I hate, so it’s no big deal when you’re only washing like four things.”She smirked. “All right, true enough. So, what’s your plan for tonight then? Nothing too strenuous, I. Damn!The siren sounded and the cell doors opened for us inmates to make our way down to the visitation room, really, a kind of large auditorium with four-person, white steel tables with seats fixed to the tables that could not be moved or detached. The worst was that there was no physical contact between prisoners and visitors in max; that was ironclad.“I got me a table kind of in the middle of the room. Today it looked like I was going to be lucky; I wouldn’t have to be sharing the table with. "We are nearly halfway there, we will be able to arrive come the morning." Hyandai assured him, using her own memory of landmarks in the woods around them. Harlen noted her newfound confidence of stride. They were in her lands now, and she knew them as Harlen had known Morrovale.She graced him with a broad smile. "There is a place we can camp tonight, in relative safety." She said. "It is my turn to provide the shelter. I often went there as a child, and it always seemed safe and I was never. It sounds ideal right? So what can the problem be, you ask? Well I'm a bitof a compulsive bard, I always think it could be said just a wee bit better.I'll write a story and then sit there and tweak it, never quite sure when tostop. It drives her nuts! Eventually, usually around the fifth or sixth rewriteshe tosses her head back screams that high pitched squeal of disgust and poof,she's gone. That's when I know it's time to post the damn story. This brings us to the problem. When she splits.
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