Angol
Alabama - 1863
Sally couldn't remember the last time she had felt comfortable in her own skin.
She knew it was a long time ago, but wasn't able to pinpoint any particular month or year. That's what life in the wasteland did to you, just used you up, mentally and physically, until there was nothing left but an empty shell of who you used to be, and nothing more.
She bore the scars, too.
What some folks would have referred to as a badge of courage to her was just a daily reminder of just how ugly she was now, too, since the night her old man had sliced the right side of her face open with a Bowie knife, and she'd retaliated this time, by using one of his own Union military revolvers to put a bullet through his head.
Now, the scar that had seemed like a red badge of courage had become a curse, and she was on the run for murder.
She wasn't so concerned now with the ugly scar than she was survival, in a hot, barren, unforgiving wasteland where danger could be lurking around every bend in the road, in every shadow at dusk, in every nook and cranny she could find to hide in...
