(Angelique)Zack wakes us at six by starfishing into the middle of the bed and announcing, "It's THE DAY."He's five.He's ours.And in about four hours he's going to eat his body weight in diner pancakes, because today we're driving down to the old town, and I'm not scared of a single mile of it.No herbs in his juice.He’s discovered he loves apple juice when it doesn’t taste like dirt and feet.My son smells like Beck and dirt and grass and boy, all the way down the highway, with the windows open, because he can.Mrs. Acheson's trailer looks exactly the same and so does she.She takes one look at the enormous black SUV, then at Rene unfolding out of it, then at me, and lights a menthol with the unhurried air of a woman confirming a theory."So that's the fella," she says."Knew you weren't hiding from nothing worth less than that."Her letter found us in the spring.Three lines, no return address needed apparently, ending with ‘whatever you ran from, I hope it either died or smarte
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