Chapter 67
“You look like shit.” And he did. Virgil was showing his age this morning, and that was not a good thing on a poet who was a couple millennia old. He hung onto the doorframe of the tiny back bedroom of the RV. His shirt was untucked and still buttoned wrong from yesterday. His face was haggard and gray with age.
Cassie had a good night’s sleep in the berth that doubled as a sofa along one wall. She hoped Theresa wouldn’t mind that she’d heated the last of the milk to help her sleep.
Now she snuggled down in the front passenger seat that had turned out to be very comfortable once she’d swung it around. The light from the windshield had come in and lit her book nicely. A gentle breeze smelling less of motor oil and more of green pines had rippled in through the passenger door w
