Caves and crossroads

Caves and crossroads

My hands are freezing. My trousers are soaked. The pelting rain sounds like popping corn under the hood of my raincoat. Droplets run along my eyebrows and drip from my nose but shaking them off is futile. I glance at DJ, and we both break a smile. Sunshine is overrated anyway.

When the alarm rang early, I had peeked through the curtain to find a misty morning with rabbits grazing on the lawn. But the downpour had begun the same time the rabbits had scattered – the moment we left the front door. Now we plod along the causeway that winds beside the dunes, stepping aside for passing cars.

“Sleep well?” DJ asks. I wipe the rain from my face and think before I answer. DJ and I first met while working on a radio project tackling child poverty. We had visited developing countries together, discovered some shared interests, and enjoyed long conversations about life and God. DJ had moved his family to Aberdeen from Australia soon after Merryn and I came to Oxford, allowing some shared hol...

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