projecting
Essays | (1)
David's GPS insisted that we continue on the Interstate, but a quick glance at the hand-written directions confirmed that it was our exit. David put on the blinker and merged right.
"Turn around," the GPS complained, "turn around."
We'd been driving for about forty-five minutes and were now surrounded by the trees and fields that carpeted most of the south. Atlanta seemed light-years away.
"I bet they're stolen," I mused, checking the street signs for the right one.
"Maybe," David said idly.
We had spent the morning tracking down a couches that were up for sale on Craigslist. By the time we got ...