Steele drove to the Old South Inn. In the lobby, a large Confederate flag was nailed to the wall behind the counter. A smaller Mississippi flag hung below it. The man behind the counter sat with his chair tilted back, his legs straight out, and the heels of his cowboy boots planted on the counter. His blonde hair was short-cropped. The man looked away from the television sitting on the counter when Steele entered. He eyeballed Steele.“Can I help you?” the man asked.“Looking for a room.”“You ain’t from around here.”“That’s why I need a room.”“How long?”“Depends?”“On what?”“If I like it here. Looking for the right place.”“And what would that be?”Steele stared at the man with a poker face. “A place people don’t ask many questions.”The man tsked before asking, “On the run?”“Law’s not looking for me. Look, can I get a room?”The man’s feet dropped to the floor. “Can’t quite make out your accent. Sounds like you’ve spent time in the South, but you ain’t a Southern boy.”“I’ve traveled around. The spring’s beautiful sleep, she thought. Well, that explains that. The words could only be describing the frozen pool. However, she certainly didn’t remember ever seeing anything similar at the spring before.That left only the final two lines of the poem. Touch in its center was an obvious – if somewhat perilous – instruction. The promise she’ll keep was still a complete mystery. What promise? Whose promise?While she stood pondering, an all too familiar itch arose at the base of her skull. Here we go again, she thought as the compulsion to step out onto the ice swelled within her.Crystal had seen the pool in spring and summer, when it wasn’t frozen. The water was perfectly clear, and she knew the pool was deep. Not deep enough to cover her head, but certainly deep enough to absolutely soak her. That would make for a miserable walk back to the house.Tentatively, she pressed the toes of her right foot against the ice. When it didn’t crack, she pushed a little harder. .
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