’ The old man stopped talking for a bit, letting his guitar build the fences around the listeners, each melody, each chord, each note drawing them i..., closer to the fire, closer to the warmth. Looking closely at his wrinkled face, red with a leather tough skin, the people could see where his tears had streamed down his face as he told the story. He took a deep breath and then continued his story. ‘Now Bill spent the first half of the year building his Bois-de-arc wood fences and then in the. I glanced, thinking it was an old coworker, shocked when her name appeared on the notification. Her message, on an app we hadn't talked on for years, read, "Where did you go?" She must've been searching for me right as she'd sent it because she was approaching from the base of the stairs now."Hey." She got closer and I felt it all over again, the sinking feeling, the punch in the gut."What's up? I just got your message, sorry."She smiled. "You're alright. Don't blame you for cutting out for a. More

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