“What you doing?” I kissed Dad’s forehead.
The Jamaican nurse, all loud prints and ugly shoes, squeaked in. She winks at me, “Your father’s making me another treasure map. Soon I’ll dig up your inheritance, run off to Florida.”
Frowning, I regard Dad’s chicken scratch handwriting.
Leaving the retirement facility, I drove to my childhood home. The moor outback was a pool of moon washed grass. I found the spot without needing any map and knelt, digging through soft earth until my fingers caught on a wrinkle of tarpaulin.
I sighed. Moving the bodies was getting to be a real chore.