9:50 a.m.
Interstate 80

Andrew Kane discovered a hole in the traffic and gunned the engine, easing into a space in the fast lane. He was getting good at driving with his left hand. Still, he kept an eye on the speedometer. No need—the fast lane was doing a whopping forty-five miles per hour. Checking the speedometer had already become instinctive, an annoying new habit. Not that he could afford another reason to take his eyes off the road now that he was relegated to using only one hand. He had enough problems without adding another speeding ticket.

Almost since the moment he drove the torch-red Saab 9-3 off the dealer’s lot, it had attracted police radar as if it contained some secret, invisible force. He wondered if it was punishment for buying what had been a magnificent splurge, so much so that he had added vanity plates that read, “A WHIM,” as if he needed to explain. Would he ever consider this car the well-deserved reward he intended it to be? After six years of playing the starving novelist and living off one credit card advance after another, he was finally reaping the financial awards, the fruits of his labor, so to speak. In other words, the royalty checks for his five novels were finally adding up. This car was supposed to symbolize his success. It was supposed to represent an end to the struggle and a new beginning, a promise of what was yet to come. Maybe all that was too much to ask of a car, any car.

He checked the rearview mirror. Traffic had slowed enough for him to adjust the canvas shoulder harness that threatened to strangle him and itched like crazy, especially in this sweaty heat. After three long weeks it still bugged the hell out of him. The doctor kept insisting Andrew wouldn’t notice it “after a while.” He was beginning to think his doctor’s measure of “after a while” wasn’t the same as his own.

Yet it wasn’t the shoulder strap that Andrew wanted to rip from his chest. That hatred he reserved for the blood-sucking contraption that practically glued his arm to his chest. His doctor had also told him that he would learn quickly to make do with his left arm as if his right no longer existed. His doctor obviously had never broken his collarbone or been without use of his dominant hand and arm…hell, practically that entire side of his body.

It didn’t help matters that this injury—what Andrew wished he could have chalked up to a simple biking accident—had unleashed the reminder that Andrew’s forty-three-year-old body wasn’t what it used to be. It was as if his reward for all the hard work and struggles, for his newly acquired success, was high blood pressure and broken bones. His doctor called it “a wake-up call,” then smiled when he added, “Who knew writing novels could be so stressful, huh?” Andrew shook his head. Maybe he needed a new doctor.

He glanced at the worn leather briefcase on the passenger seat. It had been with him through the writing of every one of his novels, a gift from Nora back in the days when she said she believed in him and wanted him to follow his dreams. Back before she realized following his dream might include going into debt and having to sacrifice by putting some things off. Things like commitment and marriage and kids. She accused him of using his dream as an excuse to avoid commitment. He told her that was ridiculous, and she couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through. It wasn’t until after she was gone from his life that he realized maybe she was right. Maybe he had a tendency to drive people away to avoid commitment. Sometimes it was just easier that way. He was better on his own, anyway.

Andrew looked back at the briefcase. Ordinarily it was bulging at the seams with notebooks, the pages filled, sometimes bleeding red from self-edits, the corners creased, stains in the margins from late-night coffee or too much wine. But today the case slouched, thin and frail, with hardly enough inside to keep it upright in the seat. The spiral notebooks were empty, white blue-lined pages ready to stare back at him, taunting instead of coaxing him. When had it become so difficult? When had writing gone from fun to hard work? When had he begun looking at his dream with dread instead of anticipation? Dread, accompanied by this tightness in his chest.

“This is the stuff of early heart attacks,” his doctor had cautioned, “especially with a family history. What was your father? Sixty-eight? Sixty-nine?”

Andrew had only nodded, not bothering to correct him. His father had been sixty-three when he died of a heart attack. Only twenty years older than Andrew. Yeah, he definitely needed a new doctor.

He tried to concentrate on the interstate lanes in front of him now that he was approaching yet another construction area. Lines of blinking taillights like little red dots lined up for as far as he could see. Another slowdown. At this rate he’d never get out to Platte River State Park. Though, what was the hurry? He had reserved the cabin for two weeks. Why hurry only to sit and stare out at the glistening lake and find that, perhaps, it could no longer inspire him? He hoped that wasn’t the case. In fact, he was counting on this retreat to turn things around. It was his last hope.

Why was the fast lane now the stop lane? Andrew cocked his head to the left, swerving the car as he did so to compensate for the harness around his neck. He couldn’t see any end to the backed-up traffic. What he could see were thunderheads, sagging in the west. Just his luck. He had hoped he and Tommy would have time before lunch to do some fishing. He still couldn’t believe his hot-shot detective friend had never been fishing before. Finally, something he could teach him. It was usually the other way around with Tommy sharing details and experiences of being a cop, teaching Andrew how to give his suspense novels some real-life credibility.

The Saab’s engine wanted to race and Andrew considered cutting the A/C to relieve it. Instead, he blasted two of the vents directly in his face and sat back. He needed to relax. His shoulder ached. It constantly ached. And today the back of his head felt as if it would explode at any second. Probably the high blood pressure.

He glanced in the rearview mirror again, this time taking note of the blue eyes staring back from behind the wire-rim glasses. The glasses were new, yet another sign of the toll his newfound success had taken. The result of too many hours spent in front of a computer screen. Recently, his eyes had begun to remind him of his father’s, almost the exact blue, chameleon—quick to change with his mood or the color of his shirt.

Andrew remembered that his father’s eyes had grown hard and cold in response to the betrayal, pain and disappointment he felt he had been dealt. There was always some reason he wasn’t able to succeed, something or someone who kept him from getting what he deserved. Life wasn’t fair. That seemed to be his father’s motto. He believed that just when you got a taste of success, a sample of happiness, it could all be ripped away.

Andrew had always promised himself he’d never be like that, and yet when Nora left he’d felt a sense of betrayal. She left when he was most vulnerable, before he had even gotten a publishing contract, before he had anything concrete in hand that he could promise or offer her. But he couldn’t be angry with Nora. He couldn’t blame her. It was his fault. Andrew wondered if he was destined to sabotage any success and happiness that came his way. Because like his father, he worried that all of it could be taken away as quickly as it had come. Is that what his writer’s block was about? Was it just another way to sabotage the success he was amassing as a novelist?

“Be careful what you wish for,” his father would often warn, usually after several whiskeys, “you might get it, only it won’t look anything like you thought it should.”

Andrew shook his head and stole one more glance in the mirror. He was not his father. He had spent a lifetime making sure of that, and yet here were his father’s eyes, staring at him, warning him again.