They walked all that day, over hot sand and through scrub brush and between pillars of craggy stone. They drank as they walked, filling their throats with quickly-warming water in a weak attempt to ward off the heat. Twice they stopped to rest in the shade and partake of their modest food supply.
During one such rest, Ruth asked, with a wad of beef jerky still in her cheek, “So did you grow up out here in the West, Miss Honey? California? Nevada?”
Honey scowled at her. “I was born under a desert boulder and crawled out as naked and lonesome as a rattler.”
Ruth stopped chewing for a moment.
“Leastways, that’s as much as anyone needs to know about me,” Honey continued. She took a bite of biscuit. “My past is my business. My personal business.”
“I see.” Ruth grew quiet.
For a second Honey felt a smidge of regret. Not really for Ruth’s sake, but for her folks. What did her ma and pa ever do to deserve this--their story swept away and hidden from the world, their oldest daughter not even daring to talk about them? But it wasn’t anything they had done. It was their wayward daughter, the one who could not now bear to drag their good names into the mess she called her life.
“And how ‘bout you?” Honey said slowly, offering a bridge of sorts between herself and Ruth. “Is your childhood one you care to relate, or do you prefer to keep it private?”
Read next
From @usmangabol