Saul’s Place by Victor Popov

In a low gear, I turned into the mile-long dirt road Saul called his driveway.

Foot easy on the accelerator. Suspension sharing every bump and pothole. Hunched over the steering wheel looking for light, any light, coming from the old farmhouse.

I was trying to keep my wheels out of the ruts; big deep things, filling up with rain. From a truck, probably. Or what you call an SUV.

Always lights on at Saul’s place, you see, assuming Saul was there. Council said it was what you call an eyesore. There was a petition. A village meeting. After he’d finished the renovations – did it all himself – he surrounded the place with big external lights. Like you see on your churches, your museums.