Wrath
Wrath had been born out of necessity, a will to survive, and with a debt that needed to be paid.
He slid into the driver’s seat of his Ford Raptor, the black truck gleaming, and still smelling like new leather and the orange air freshener clipped to the vent. He’d already packed his meager belongings earlier that morning. Turning his back on the cheap motel room, where he’d been staying had been easy. He hadn’t been comfortable, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to be. He’d tried sleeping on the bed, but every night, he shifted to the floor, sleeping on his back.
John stood next to his truck, the window now open. “Take care of yourself, Jake.”