Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 17
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Fiction
His face shines as bright as a lighthouse as he slaps me on
the back and says, “You son of a bitch, I’m in.”
“That was easy,” I tell him.
“You’re easy,” he says, evenly, and slaps me on the back
again. “To the Max.”
There’s little fanfare as we cross yet another pedestrian
bridge and wind into the Brandywine lot.
“Where is everybody?” Max exclaims.
And, it’s true: the falls is yet another casualty of the pandemic. Orange barricades and big signs that say CLOSED UNTIL
FURTHER NOTICE detour would-be vacationers and local sightseers with several lines of 昀椀ne print about 昀椀nes.
The only vehicle in the lot is a lone SUV, Macie’s, who
waves when she sees us coming around the 昀椀nal bend.
“Max!” she cries as reality sinks in. Macie bounds over to
us and latches onto Max. “You did it!”
Max buckles a little.
“Not so fast,” he says, and takes a deep breath.
“I’m so proud of you,” Macie says. “I wish I could do
something like that. It’s incredible!”
I say, “It is. This man is a miracle.”
“You just have to have the right tools and the means to
foster them,” Max says, and gives me a quick look.
This look says thank you.
For everything and what’s to come.
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