First Chapter of The Origins of Iris
A telescope was the only thing of value I took when I walked out of my life. Aged thirty years and fifty-nine days, I boarded a bus and rode it through three states to a small town in the Catskills. I could have driven a car. I could have flown in one of those tiny-engined planes. I could have taken a bus route with one connection, four hours’ travel time, instead of the eight-connection, twenty-eight-hour journey I’d chosen. Any other mode of transport would have been quicker, more convenient and much more comfortable than this bus.
But this bus would be the hardest route for Claude, or the police... READ MORE.
