The sight of an opaque wall of fog stopped her legs and tightened her neck muscles. We could get lost in there. Fall off the bridge into the creek. She shuddered, massaged the scar on her abdomen, circled her head to loosen the muscles.
She hadn’t realized the town of Peach Blossom experienced such unsettling weather when she moved from Phoenix last month. Tornadoes, yes, but not impenetrable fog.
Her mother’s cellar promised protection from tornadoes. This kind of fog was just… well, it felt like a colony of killer bees swarmed inside her stomach. That reminded her to find someone to help move the bees from the attic to the orchard to pollinate the trees rather than buzz her awake every morning.
Another glimpse of the murkiness that obscured the bridge increased her tension. Kneading the scar didn’t help, so she shifted from worrying about fog and Africanized bees to stretching exercises. She’d learned not to let her muscles seize up when she served in Afghanistan with the Army Rangers a few years back, the worst and the best time of her life.
The thought almost had her grabbing the abdominal scar again.