Clouds gathered in a mountain shape with a dark bottom and a feather-like top near Hurds Hill in the south of Scofield. They moved across the town and flew to the north. Thunderstorms were expected for the next couple of weeks. It was also the time of spring tides in the month. The local fire brigade had constituted an emergency unit to evacuate the twelve households along the Ouse River.

Raymond Hart grew up in Scofield. By the time he decided to move back to Scofield after four-year study of dentistry in Glasgow, Scofield was almost impalpable. When he stood in front of the ticket booth at Queen Street with his black waterproof backpack, which stuffed with his collected mugs, swung on his right shoulder, the same shoulder that a gray Dell computer bag shared on, and a two-wheeled dark blue luggage in which he had squeezed all his books and clothes and now dropped on his left side, the triple-chin ticket teller in the window was first confused. He asked Raymond with his microphone: “Sir, you mean Stocksfield?” “No,” Raymond answered with the same volume without the microphone on his side. “Scotfield.” Raymond could see his chin was bouncing back and forth between his giant head and short neck when he spoke again: “Sir, I am sorry. There is only one other station I could see here started with a ‘s’. It’s Sellafield.” Raymond was almost shouting: “No, Scofield. It’s not in Scotland. It’s about seventy miles north of London.” Raymond saw the guy push his triple-chin back toward his chest as he looked down the railway map, and his neck seemed disappeared. “There it is! Scofield!” Raymond moved his computer bag to his left shoulder, and took his wallet out from his right back pocket on his pants. “How much is it?” “Sorry, Sir. But the train doesn’t stop at Scofield. The nearest station from Scofield is Ipswich.” Raymond had never taken the train between Scofield and Glasgow. As a matter of fact, Raymond had never visited Scofield during his four years of study. He could have anticipated this inconvenience of taking the train back to Scofield. It was his school buddy Robert Tantory drove him to Glasgow four years ago. Fortunately, Raymond knew Ipswich enough. He could manage go back to Scofield from there by taking a thirty-minute bus. What he didn’t know was since he got on the train at four o’clock in the morning, he had to change the train at the Glasgow Central Station, took the train all the way south to London Euston for five hours, arrived at nine o’clock in the morning when everyone was commuting in the Underground, with all of his luggage he took the packed Underground to Liverpool Street where he could connected to Ipswich. When he was on the bus on the way from Ipswich to Scofield, he had been too tired to think about punching on the ticket teller’s meaty face and seeing how the flash would have caused the vibrancy from the fist to another side of his face.

Raymond hadn’t even arrived at the house for twenty-four hours yet, and had to be evacuated because of the coming storms. This house was still under his father’s name, even though both of his parents died about two years ago. Raymond phoned Robert Tantory and asked him if he could crush his place for a couple of weeks. Robert didn’t mind.

**Photo from Canada-Photos.com