She hit the straightaway, dust kicking up behind her like applause from the ancestors, and that’s when the thought landed — clean, sharp, undeniable:

She could just leave.

She could.

She could point that truck toward anywhere with fewer trash bags and fewer people hollering rules they printed off Facebook.

But even Podunk — for all its chaos, critters, and characters — is still run by the law, and Lula’s Law sure as hell won’t do.

Lula’s Law is loud.

Lula’s Law is wrong.

Lula’s Law is printed on the back of expired coupons and waved around like scripture.

But it ain’t the law.

And Spine knew it.

Knew it deep enough to laugh, even though the frustration.

She muttered to herself:

“If Lula ever tried to run the county, the county would pack up and move.”

She wanted a place
for herself and her animals —

a quiet patch where the loudest thing was a hound snoring and the most dramatic thing was debatable.

But instead, she kept getting handed:

trash bags

flies

fishermen who park like toddlers

and Lula, who thinks yelling is a legal strategy

Spine shook her head, sunglasses hiding the exact flavor of her disbelief.

And she kept driving — not running, not quitting — just thinking.

Lake Mystic would allow her time to send a message.