““You’ve probably all seen this place before. It’s a large field filled with really old pecan trees. They are planted in rows with the grass trimmed beneath them. Sometimes the owners let the cattle run free in the field, their hulking bodies snorting beneath the gigantic barken trunks, their breath visible in the dewy morning air as the sun rises over—” I hold my crossed fingers up and interrupt him. “Dude, can we get on with it? Your third year creative writing class is doing wonders for your descriptive prose, but I’m ready to smash some skulls.” It takes all I have to not squeak in shock when Zelda actually seconds my statement with a fervent nod. Tommy sighs and flips past one, two, three of the notecards he was reading from. The dude must really be digging those writing classes. “Okay, here we go. ””
