Part One
~*~
Summer passed in a warm and wonderful
blur. My energy returned a little every day, and I was able to write
more than half of my long-imagined novel. Best of all, no water issues.
Then reality happened.
In August, Mom announced that once
September fell we'd travel to the Airstream factory in Ohio.
"Why?" I asked.
The leaks had begun to learn the art of
disguise. The third drip was located under the bathroom counter, half
concealed by a panel and far back from our sharpened gazes. The
insulation in the wall, where the water supply hose screwed into the
Bub, was sobbing wet.
I was a sobbing mess. Right through the
day the Bub was towed into the service bay at the factory, I couldn't
let myself think about how the workers would come in and tear up our
Bub. Their likely contaminated hands would touch my only safe abode
and possibly make it uninhabitable for me. Then I wouldn't have a place live
again.
Anxiety held me less than an inch from
the edge of oblivion. The draw to shut down pulled hard, but I
thankfully retreated to another option: ignore the problem. If I
could pretend everything was peachy-keen, I'd be orangey-bean.
Within a week, the contamination-free
Airstream technicians had everything in working order and reassured
us that no lasting damage from any of the three leaks had compromised
our Bub.
We followed our merry way, the southern
sun our destination, unaware of the nightmare to come.
Part Three
Part Three
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