Nightfall in the Santa Monica Mountains arrived unannounced.
There was nothing orderly about the way light fell into their canyon, one moment blockaded, the next full bore. The patterns appeared so insistent and random they seemed to defy time.
At the kitchen table in the little house in the canyon off Kanan Dume Road the five of them played hearts. Each was dealt ten cards. The two of diamonds and two of clubs were removed from the deck.
They played four games and didn’t talk much about their new life as fugitives.
None seemed upset. They didn’t consider their situation a predicament.
During nightfall in the Santa Monica Mountains, each seemed rejuvenated by the acceptance of life as a fugitive.
