The Road to Ballinrue
The road unspooled ahead of them like a ribbon someone had tossed carelessly across the hills, dipping and curling past stone walls furred with moss, past sheep that regarded the little rental car with total indifference. Lauren had the window cracked despite the chill, letting in air that smelled of cut grass and something saltier underneath, something that hinted at the sea long before they'd see it.
"You packed four pairs of hiking boots," Mia said, not for the first time. She had one hand loose on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up into her dark curls even though the sky was more cloud than not. "Four. For a ten-day trip."
"Two pairs of hiking boots. The other two are just boots."
"They're boots for hiking in weather that isn't currently happening."
"It's Ireland, Mia. The weather that isn't currently happening is always about to happen." Lauren said it lightly, and it was true enough to earn her a laugh, but some part of her—some small, animal part that never quite went off duty—was already tracking the wing mirror, watching the gray sedan that had been behind them since the last roundabout. It held its distance. Two car-lengths, maybe three. Nothing. A woman going to work,…
