The demons had been restless of late, but something else was eating at Flossie’s spirit. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. That something kept her from sleeping last night. She closed her eyes to allow her small solitary figure to sway in time with music only the wind could make, freeing her spirit so that she could pinpoint whatever it was that was nagging at her. She gave up with a sigh on her lips. As in all things, soon all would be made clear. There was a great deal of hustle and bustle in preparation for the approaching storm, with hammering and boarding up and such. Flossie felt like she was the last human on earth, small, pitiful, and alone. “Olodumare, somethin’ bad is gon’ happen sure as my name is Flossie. I can feel it in my bones,” she muttered to herself, stepping back into the kitchen. No sooner had the thought of impending doom crossed Flossie’s mind when the wheels of the plantation buck wagon sped over pits and ruts, creating sparks on gravel as its driver raced hell-bent for leather down River Road. Something wicked was coming and it was stinking to high heaven.