The old man stepped off the wooden boardwalk that ran above the dunes ringing the gravel parking lot and onto the soft white sand of the beach making up the south end of Pawleys Island, South Carolina. Despite the early morning darkness and the fact sunrise was still over an hour away he instinctively knew he was completely alone. The solitude and isolation suited his needs. The old man had come home one last time to indulge the cruel ironies that made up his adult life.
There was no other option, twenty minutes later Andrew is on the bus wearing his army class A uniform heading north on U.S. Highway Seventeen. As Andrew’s hometown disappeared behind him he held the silver switchblade tightly in his right hand swearing to God never to return.
(Author's note: This half-assed attempt at "decent" fiction actually has an ending. Will post chapter three and four no later than Monday.)