INTERNATIONAL FALLS, MINNESOTA

He blew breathe from his mouth and watched the vapor drift away. His gloved hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his coat and his chin hunched down under the scarf wrapped around his face. He stamped his feet and the soles of his boots crunched on the frozen ground.

‘Anything?’ the receiver crackled in his ear.

He pulled his hand from his pocket. ‘Negative,’ he said into the tiny microphone attached to the cuff of his coat.

‘Copy that. Maintain position.’

They didn’t show you this on the TV shows, or train you for it at the Academy. Reynolds returned, walking across the road holding two cups with steam pouring from the lids. He handed one to him. The heat from the coffee warmed his hands.

‘Anything?’

‘Not a sign.’

They sipped their coffee and looked at the apartment building across the road. Inside, she would still be in bed, wrapped up in warm blankets.

‘How long until the next shift?’ he asked his senior partner.

‘Still got two hours. You missing San Diego yet?’

‘I don’t know why anyone would want to live here.’

‘Unless they were on the run.’

He nodded. Why hadn’t she decided to hole up in Mexico or the Caribbean?


Written for #FOWC, hosted by Fandango on his blog This, That and the Other. Today’s prompt word was: Vapo(u)r. Click on the link to read contributions from other writers.



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