Miracle on Gully Wash Road
The house leaned a little to the left, like it had grown tired of standing straight. One shutter hung loose, knocking softly against the wall whenever the breeze came through. The roof had been patched so many times with bits of tin that it looked like a quilt sewn by different hands, none of them matching. But the house was still standing, and that counted for something.
Inside lived the Rolle family.
Marcia Rolle woke before the sun most mornings, not because she wanted to but because worry didn’t allow sleep to linger. That morning was no different. She lay still for a few minutes on the thin mattress she shared with her youngest daughter, Leila, listening to the sounds of Over-the-Hill coming to life. A potcake barked somewhere down Gully Wash Road. A truck rattled past, its engine coughing like it needed medicine. The roosters that belonged to nobody in particular crowed as if they owned the place.
Marcia swung her feet to the floor and felt the cool concrete beneath her toes. The house had no tiles, just bare cement worn smooth from years of sweeping. She stood quietly so she wouldn’t wake Leila and padded into the kitchen, which was really just one corner of the living room separated by a sagging curtain.
She opened the fridge and stared.
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