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Then, after five years of joyful correspondence, the final email came. ‘Dear Cal . . .’ Her husband, now a college professor, had discovered her cache of emails and challenged her. He had not understood how she could have kept such a thing from him for so many years, and no amount of tears and confession would make up for the mistake of keeping their friendship secret. Finally, at the end of the long correspondence, she wrote the words that left him numb. **************************** Cal sat for several hours atop the ridge, listening to Rascal snore, the squirrels moving from tree to tree to check these intruders out, the snort of a deer that almost walked up on them, the shrill cry of the pair of nesting hawks as they brought food back to the little ones. He gloried in the beautiful hills that surrounded his home, in the wonderfully soft clouds that lazily moved across the sky, and the graceful sweep of a turkey buzzard overhead as it road the shafts of heat rising from the earth,. Then the shots began to really fly. Another cop went down. Brendan kissed the pavement with a swiftness he didn't believe that he still possessed. Sirens lit up the neighborhood. One of the cops fired back. Lights started flashing red and blue. Brendan began to crawl crablike backward from the shooting zone, staying in the gutter.He desperately wanted to see what was going on as the shooting continued, but his utter fear kept him creeping backwards. Cars pulled up and feet rushed past him as he continued to crawl. The pop-pop of hand guns ratcheted up into the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons. Brendan, now completely panicked, turned tail and ran with his head down. He passed a cop van and unmarked cars with their lights flashing.When he was a block back from Carly's house, he stopped to catch his breath or maybe his sanity. An old wrinkled woman poked her head out the door. "Who are they shooting at?" the old lady asked."The Fusco house," Brendan replied. He kept running his hand.
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