Dusk to Dawn

Chapter 1

The loud motorcycle engine cut through the silence of the night and woke me up with a start. Not much of a start. Since I couldn't move much under the mountain of blankets, I had wrapped in before bed.

Here we go again.

It's the third time this week that my neighbor has left the house with his music turned up as loud as it goes. My eyes are barely open when I look at the clock and moan at the time. Who in their right mind listens to Lynard Skynard at six am?

I wish I were the type that could fall back asleep quickly, but my brain is just a little different than everyone else's. So I moan as loudly as my throat will let me, and I get up to go into the bathroom and handle my morning routine.

Almost every morning has been the same since I moved back to Emerald City. But after about two months of waking up in the ass crack of dawn, my patience was wearing dangerously thin. I had no idea how to confront the man, though. I rarely even caught a glimpse of him. He was mainly gone all day and usually showed up back home when I was about to go to sleep. I knew that he drove a loud, obnoxious motorcycle, though. I'm sure everyone in the county could hear it.

Whatever. I was finally back home after four years in my mountain roots, far away from the research project that took me away initially. My current role was a field researcher, cataloging the species of plants and trees that had regrown in the area after the lumber mill business got shut down 20 years back. Very different from my role in finding new species of hybrid flowers in the Amazonian jungle.

No, I was happy to be home and out of the humidity. And regardless of my neighbors' antics, I would continue to be satisfied. I was healthy, had a good-paying gig for now, and had my family with me. Focusing on the blessings of my life was what got me out of bed every morning.

Our houses were the only two on this wooded dead end, his being right in front of mine. I chose to stay in this area because of the easy access I had to the forests surrounding us. So far, I have cataloged the growth of the surrounding cider trees in the half acre around both houses and am making fantastic progress.

I drink my coffee and eat my breakfast as I wait for the sun to rise higher. My field notes, laptop, and rain jacket are all on my person, and I wait for the right time to make my trek through the morning forest again.

I can walk out past the county lines by the time it gets to be near noon. Uncle Rick and Rick Jr. would be waiting on me back at their bar for lunch, so I hurried home to shower and wash off the dirt and sweat. I should leave my backpack at home, but it took a lot of work to break the habit of bringing it with me wherever I went. I pull up in the rust bucket Ricky Jr. found for me and park outside the old pub they run together. The smell of stale beer and cleaner wafts out as I open the old wooden door and sit at the table in the corner. I can see Ricky getting everything ready to open behind the bar, and he gives me his usual saucy wink. I give a pretend glare back and open my laptop.

It's usually how my days have gone since I arrived home, tired and haggard from the two-day journey from Panama. I wake in the morning to the rumble of a motorcycle, walk through the forest in my backyard, and then have lunch and spend my day in the bar until it opens at 5pm. I liked the routine; it allowed me to input all of my collected data into the software on my laptop in a quiet area. The bar was the only quiet place to do my work in Emerald City, CA, at the moment. There was no public library, and most cafes were down the mountain, closer to the big city. Just houses scattered throughout the hills, and one main road housed most of the businesses in town. Across from the bar was a new mechanic shop that must have opened in the 4 years I was gone.

I'm deep into my data cataloging when I hear the door open and shut with a thud. I notice a man wearing greasy coveralls, black working boots, and a thick brown beanie walk in. Can't really see his face in the dimness of the bar. The walls are covered with mirrored signs of different beer brands, and the old lights cast off a soft yellow glow. The man walks right past me and sits at the bar between me and Ricky; he gives me a quick glance and turns around to pour the man a drink.